His Dark Beauty
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: Emma lives a quiet life on the small farm she inherited upon the death of her parents many years ago. That life is disrupted when one good deed brings her to the attention of Prince Killian-widower, father, and brother to the king. He offers her a deal too good to be true, and yet, who could possibly refuse the man who might one day rule their realm? Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

Emma Shepherd coughs as yet another carriage rolls along the king's road, kicking up dirt and dead leaves. When she'd set out from her cottage well before dawn, her cloak had been a bright blue and her hair freshly washed; now both are likely to end the day liberally powdered with fine dust, and she thanks her stars that she remembered a covering cloth for her basket. The nearest village boasts a decent sized market, and Emma has needed to go and fetch fresh staples for a week.

Ever since her parents passed away several years ago, she's managed to keep her small farm running and her even smaller herd of sheep fed—a fact that fills her with a great deal of pride. Emma had not only been reeling from her loss, but had been forced to endure proposal after proposal from every witless farmer and shepherd from miles around. Some wanted her lands, some wanted her herd, and almost all of them wanted to get them by marrying her.

The thought that she didn't need a single one of them had never crossed their minds, and her flat refusals had shocked more than a few. So, it's with an extra little bounce in her step that she walks straight through the narrowing road and crowding houses to either side, head held high and face bearing a smile. Among the many lessons passed down to her by her father, it's that there's no shame in feeling pride so long as it has been well earned. Nearing the first of the stalls, she slips the carry-sack out of her basket, currently filled with fresh eggs, and begins her shopping day at the miller's for flour.

As the sun climbs higher, her pack starts to get a little heavier and her basket a little lighter. Those items she can trade for, she does, and those she can't, she pays in coin. Close to noon time, Emma's purchases nearly complete, she wanders nearer to the actual shops and notices a girl prancing exuberantly in front of a more sedately moving older woman. Not much older than six or so, the dark-haired child chatters excitedly about first one thing and then another—transfixed by the various luxuries on display.

The woman is far too old to be the child's mother, so perhaps a grandmother or a maiden aunt helping to care for her young relative. In either case, there's no mistaking the genuine affection between them. Emma sees the granny smile and hears her answer each question fondly, and it reminds her of how she was as a child and how Snow would always gently and patiently respond. Her heart aches for her mother, as it always will, but she soon forgets the girl in her haste to finish her shopping.

It's when she leaves the apothecary after having purchased some soaps and oils that it happens. She squints her eyes and holds her hand up to block the sun as she comes out into the noon-time light. In the middle of the street, raven curls twist and bob on the breeze as the child dances in a circle. She's caught up in some nursery-song she's humming to herself, her fine woolen skirt held daintily between thumb and index finger while she twirls. Emma hears the nearby scream of a horse and the clatter of hooves as a man is thrown. The stallion bucks once and lunges, swiftly galloping down the street, directly toward the young girl.

Emma doesn't think—she just reacts, dropping her carry-sack and basket. She has one second to pray that she isn't too late before the soft, small body is wrapped in her arms, and together they tumble into the small stoop of the baker's shop. She does her best to turn her body and take the brunt of the fall, arse landing painfully on the stones and back colliding with the wall. She dimly hears a woman shrieking when she sets the little girl on her feet. Wide, bright blue eyes stare at her in awe, and tiny hands touch her face and hair. "You're the prettiest lady I've ever seen! And you saved me! Are you a fairy godmother?"

Everyone catches up to them then; the girl is bundled up in the arms of her sobbing granny and a well-dressed townsman helps Emma to her feet. He also managed to retrieve her sack and basket, both of which look much worse for wear, but she thanks him for coming to her aid. She brushes her dress and cloak off as best she can, noting sadly that the latter is torn and that she'll need to make stop at the spinner's to purchase a patch and some thread to mend it.

Emma makes to leave when the man who helped her shushes the granny and points to her. The older woman, clearly flustered and upset, presses a hand to her mouth and then sweeps Emma into a bone-crunching hug. "Oh, bless you, my dear! I swear I only looked away for a second! You saved our precious Sophia! Bless you!"

"It was what anyone would have done. Is she truly alright?" Emma winces slightly when the other woman finally releases her, not used to physical contact or having anyone make a fuss over her. Not to mention that the recent painful encounter with the ground and a solid wall has caused her quite a lot of discomfort.

"Not a scratch on her, thanks to you!" More townspeople have gathered around by this point, so Emma seizes the chance to slip away quietly into and around the crowd. Because now, a second trip to the apothecary is in order—this time for some herbs and a healing salve for the bruises she'll be sporting come tonight—and she'd rather see her cottage before nightfall if at all possible. She doesn't notice that the townsman who set her on her feet was actually a servant wearing his master's livery, nor does she hear him ask the folk in the crowd who the little girl's savior was and where she could be found later on.

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"Papa! Papa! You'll never guess what I saw today! Papa!"

Killian marks his spot in the ledger with a ribbon, sighing in exasperation and relief. Having Francine take Sophia out to the village had been a besotted father's desperate attempt to get some of the estate business finished so that he could devote a whole evening to some needed reading and relaxation. Yet he would far rather spend time with his rambunctious child instead of poring over dull accounts; so when his daughter stumbles into the library, launching herself into his arms, he catches her easily and envelops her in a fierce embrace. A tightness around his chest eases, one that he hadn't realized was there until she'd bounded into view. It's been nearly three years since he lost his beloved wife, Milah, but the bittersweet ache has not dulled, nor has his consuming love for their child diminished by one iota.

"What did you see, my little love? Were there trolls and goblins planning to gobble such a sweet morsel up?" Sophia giggles when he tickles his beard against her chin and pretends to nibble on her shoulder. Lately, she's taken to asking for bedtime stories about daring knights and their heroic quests.

"Noooo, silly Papa! Trolls live under bridges, and goblins can't come out with the sunshine!" She crooks her finger, beckoning him closer. Telling secrets in not-precisely-whispers has also become a new favorite pastime. "I saw a fairy godmother!"

"You did?" He tries to hide his smile when Sophia nods enthusiastically, patting his cheek with her little hand. It's a gesture he's certain she learned from her mother, and his love for them both gently squeezes his heart.

"She was the prettiest lady I've ever seen, Papa. Her hair was sunshiny and glowy, and her eyes looked like the willow leaves by the pond. Her wings were blue, and she flew in and scooped me up so fast! She threw me into the baker's shop, but then I landed on her."

He stiffens, his eyes immediately searching for Francine, but the nanny waiting by the library door only shakes her head. Either Sophia hasn't given him the whole story, or Francine has no desire to be the one to share the tale with her employer. "Let's go play with your new doll. What do you say, Sophie?"

The little girl groans a bit at the nickname, but dutifully and loudly kisses Killian's cheek before squirming to be put down. "For the last time, _Francie_, it's Sophia. So-Fee-Uh. Not So-Fee. That's not as pretty as _my_ name."

He stares at the door, shaking his head with a smile on his face. Only a child who has never wanted for love could so casually dismiss a traumatic event, belief in the happy serendipity of a gentle universe still intact. The footman he had sent with Sophia and Francine stands in the doorway just outside the library waiting to catch his attention. Killian beckons him forward and returns to his seat at his desk. "James, what happened?"

"Sophia was dancing in the street completely oblivious to everything around her, Sir. You know how she is. She'd started in after seeing the young miss she mentioned, talking about going to see a fairy ring or up to firefly hill." A smile tugs at the corner of James' mouth, the servant clearly as beguiled by Sophia's playful antics as everyone else in his household. "A rider, what had no business riding the animal he was on, lost control of his horse. The stallion bucked him off and started running, and it would have run Sophia right over if this fairy woman hadn't gotten her out of the way. She dashed across the street to catch the child in her arms, and kept her safe as you please from a nasty tumble against the baker's shop."

"A fairy woman? Surely you know better than to believe such tales, James."

"Aye, but it was just as curious as Sophia painted it. Just a slip of a young miss, really, but she made certain that the child was safe. I asked, but couldn't get her name from her, Sir. I pointed her out to Francine, who was weeping away and ever so grateful. But then once I looked away, she'd given us the slip, Highness. I asked around, you know, the folks what had seen the accident. They say, if it's who they think, it's the lass what's been running her father and mother's farm all by her lonesome. Don't live too far from here."

Killian listens to his footman's account, feeling his curiosity begin to stir. What manner of person performs such a momentous service to the royal family, and then vanishes into thin air? "Confirm your suspicions, and if they are wrong, find the right girl. I want to show her my gratitude for saving my daughter."

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The next day begins as usual, opening the barn doors to let the sheep out into the pasture and the chicken into the yard to scrounge for scraps. Only then does she allow her hands to dig into the rich soil, carefully clearing her garden patch of troublesome weeds and planting more seed. The earth feels cool and moist, while the air is warmed by the sun. Peaceful moments like these help her feel connected to life, like she's a part of some grander whole than she could ever imagine; remembering these precious minutes and hours help to keep the dark and loneliness at bay every night. But her normal solitude is broken by the clatter of a horse's hooves and the scared bleating of the flock at the noise.

She manages to rise with little difficulty, although her still sore back protests the change in position, and begins to walk toward the fence that surrounds the plot and keeps the animals out. She wipes her hands on her skirt before lifting them to her face to shade her eyes. She can't see the rider yet, but she can hardly imagine just what errand would bring anyone out here—it's been well over a year since she sent the last idiot suitor packing, and at the point of a blade no less.

Yet the small track that leads from the king's road to her farm seldom sees use from anyone other than herself, so Emma makes it her business to know about every person who passes through the lane. By the time she reaches the gate, a dappled gray stallion comes into view carrying a man in livery, clearly displaying a special courier's badge. She frowns and bites her lower lip, for she has not seen the like since the king's messenger came informing her father David that he had been called to serve in the army, many years ago. In her experience, such heralds only appear with bad news, demanding more taxes or a greater share of her herd and crops—all for the glory of the kingdom, no doubt.

The horse slows and halts in front of her, yet the rider does not dismount. He reaches into his satchel and draws out a rolled bit of parchment. "Are you Emma Shepherd?"

"I am. How can I help you?"

The courier hands the scroll down to her, eyes never once leaving her face. "I've a message from his royal highness, Prince Killian. I have been instructed to ensure that you read it, and then return to my master with your answer."

Emma takes the parchment, but looks at the rider confusedly. Prince Killian? Last she heard, their king was named William and had no children. And what would a prince want with her anyway? Lips set in a firm line, she removes the ribbon and unfurls the paper.

_Dear Miss Shepherd,_

_You do not know me, but I am afraid I am deeply in your debt. Yesterday, you rescued a young child from a spooked horse in the market, by all accounts vanishing into thin air after seeing her safe and reunited with her nanny and servants. That little girl was my beloved daughter and only child, Sophia. I simply must meet the person who so carelessly risked her own health and safety for that of a perfect stranger and then thought nothing of a reward or recognition, for such a kind and heroic soul truly must be worth knowing. I ask that you come tomorrow to my manor so that I and my daughter may thank you properly. My courier awaits your reply and will inform me of it upon his return to me._

_Your humblest servant,_

_Killian Regis F._

She breathes deeply, desperately attempting to calm the panic and fear racing through her body. Even one day spent away from her home remains a prospect fraught with risks, for with no servants to stand guard and no lock that cannot be broken Emma can lose all she has in the world in just a few short hours. A woman who refuses to marry and chooses to stay independent attracts enough trouble and ridicule as it is, but one who prospers and whose farm thrives becomes an object of fear and a magnet for enemies. Should it be discovered by those who wish her ill that she will be away, she might find nothing worth coming back home to when she returns.

Yet no matter the polite words or the courteous phrases, the letter is a summons—one she cannot afford to ignore. She cannot disobey the implied order, compelling her to go and await this prince's pleasure. She may be comfortable and independent, harming none out here on her land, yet the strange caprice and fleeting favor of princes cannot be denied. But she lets none of these thoughts show on her face as she dips a small curtsy. "Please inform his highness that I will be honored to go and speak with him on the morrow."

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She leaves at dawn so that she will arrive well before the noon hour, grateful once again to her father's careful education that she remembered the location of the prince's home. Before her mother's death, the large estate had been run only by servants and the prince's tenants while the family had lived elsewhere. Since then, Emma hasn't exactly had the time to keep up to date on the local gossip and so missed the news of the lord of the manor's return.

She also has never had any need for fancy gowns before today, so last night she had carefully opened the cedar wardrobe where her mother's nicer dresses were kept. Despite the harsh, yet clean smell of the wood, Emma caught the ghost of the lavender oil that Snow had loved to wear and had proceeded to cry for the first time in years. Her mother hadn't wanted to live, not after losing her beloved David to a vicious battle of the Ogres' Wars. The light and joy that had brightened gilded all Emma's childhood memories began to fade slowly out of the woman who gave her life with each passing winter. When the god of Death had finally come for Snow, it had been a tender mercy.

Emma tries to clear the fog of grief and maudlin thoughts from her mind, so contrary to the warm, spring sunshine and mellow breeze of the morning. She looks down at the dress she chose, wishing once more that she either had greater need for the fine silks and velvets locked in the cedar wardrobe or that no such occasion had occurred to make her open the damn thing in the first place. While her parents had adored her and always said that she was more beautiful than Snow had ever been, Emma had been more realistic about her form and face. She was pretty, certainly, but hardly fairest in all the land.

Yet wearing the bright, mossy color and feeling the slip of the luxurious fabric against her skin makes her feel confident in an entirely unexpected way. If she had the time and money and disposition to be idle, she knows that she could make others believe that she was beautiful—she's known the apothecary long enough to know all about the creams, oils, lotions, and cosmetics that the gentry and the doxies use to make their outsides more appealing. She could marry a rich, handsome man who would take care of the farm and all her trouble, and who would be more than happy to watch her spend his money on things that would drive him mad with lust for her. (Although, to be sure, the world being the cruel and spiteful place that it is, she imagines all handsome men to be poor and ugly men to be rich.)

Emma laughs at herself, once again carefully lifting her silken skirts in both hands to keep the hemline free of as much mud and dirt as possible. She's never once desired to trade her life of honest, hard work for one of useless, indolent pleasure, and she highly doubts that she'll ever be so inclined.

Thankfully, the manor is not far, and Emma is well acquainted with a short-cut across the park and lawn, so she need not walk along the harsh gravel avenue that leads up to the house. She also doesn't have to hop over any ditches or hedges that might damage her mother's beautiful dress. On account of her low station, she's also probably not expected to wear silken slippers; sturdy boots of soft leather have always served her just fine, and Snow's feet were far daintier than Emma's had been in years.

As she's crossing the lawn and the house finally comes into view, Emma realizes that in all the years of seeing her mother's fancy finery in the wardrobe she's never questioned just why a simple farmer's wife would ever own such things. Nothing about their life had ever required such fripperies as far as she can remember. But once her path connects with the gravel avenue and she gets her first full sight of the manor, the mysteries of her parents slip from her thoughts.

While others would see dark grey stone teeming with growing moss and ivy vines needing to be cleared, Emma sees a vast abode, weighed down by its lofty inhabitants and a sense of ancient splendor. While clearly no castle, two towers rise up on the corners that she can see, making her feel both small and observed. Indeed, the manor is practically crumbling from years of neglect, yet to plain, honest eyes it nonetheless appears grand and palatial.

Emma carefully navigates the steps, slightly intrigued at the likely magnificence of a home that requires so many stairs just to reach the front door. She's just about to reach up and knock when she hears hooves clattering on the gravel drive behind her and fleetingly thinks that perhaps the attendant noise of horses might somehow be the gods' way of alerting her to prophetic and monumental tidings. She turns toward the sound instinctively—always alert to potential danger—and sees the most astoundingly match rider and steed.

The horse's coat is a glossy, coal black that is practically the same as the gentleman's hair. Indeed, this must be the Prince, for she recognizes the same raven locks and piercingly blue eyes that belong to the little girl from the market. Despite the dark beard, she also recognizes the child's chin in the father's face, yet those are all that Prince Killian seems to have passed down to his daughter.

After a startled moment spent openly staring at one another, Emma remembers her manners and dips into a low curtsy. "Your highness."

She hears him dismount from his horse and have a quick word with the servant who takes the animal away, but she does not look up or allow herself to rise. She waits patiently while dusty black boots take the stairs two at a time before halting just within her line of sight. "Miss Shepherd, I presume."

His voice is that rare, magical combination—melodic, low, and soft—a distinctly masculine tone that hints at an enjoyment of music and song. For some reason, the sound of her name coming from his throat and past his lips causes her to shiver uncontrollably. "Indeed, your highness."

A gloved hand reaches out and touches her chin, lifting so that she must look up. She sees full, sensual lips that are reddened from the wind and from the occasional swipe of his tongue. His angular jaw is softened by a black beard and stubble, and across one of his high cheekbones is an old scar. His nose fits his face—neither too larger, nor hooked enough to be considered aquiline. But it is the eyes that capture, that beguile and bewitch; Emma has never seen the ocean, yet his eyes are the color of the vast stretches of water she's only seen in stories and her imagination. She could drown herself in those eyes and count everything else well lost.

He grins, not unkindly, but with a sense that he has heard her thoughts directly from her mind or read them in her eyes. Emma straightens up, flicking her head to the side firmly so that he is no longer touching her. She takes a step back and looks back down at his boots. "You summoned me, your highness, and so, here I am."

"Indeed, I did. Please, come in, and be welcome to Thistledown Hall."

**A/N: **_**Regis F**_**. is short for **_**Regis Filius**_**, a Latin phrase that translates as Prince. I chose this translation as it more closely resembles the affectation common royalty in Renaissance Europe (i.e., Henry VIII signing is name as **_**Henricus Rex**_**).**


	2. Chapter 2

Since Killian can remember he has used exercise of all varieties, but fencing and horseback riding in particular, to purge his demons and banish the nightmares that plague him. His mother's death to the same illness that struck him when he was just a small boy and his father's slow, bitter descent into madness had left his older brother Liam to run the kingdom and the younger prince with no suitable companion in grief.

This morning he woke as usual—covered in cold sweat amid twisted, rumpled sheets. The nightmare never changes, never fades in its cruel clarity. A ship of the line carrying a precious cargo caught in a terrifying storm, the blackest and wildest in living memory. Cold, dark water lit only by flashes of lightning while it wrapped its beguiling arms around captain, passengers, and crew. For many months, he had put on a good face, pretended to believe that the _Princess' Joy_ would be found in no time at all; he'd allowed his brother to send out other ships and shore parties while Killian closed himself in the nursery with Sophia and her calm assurance that Mama would be home soon.

Explaining to his two year old the delicate balance between life and death remains the most devastatingly painful lesson he's ever had to teach. The fact that this particular nightmare haunts him the day after he so nearly lost their daughter… Let's just say that he is unsurprised by the crippling icy-chill of terror that twines along his spine and the urge to recklessly throw himself into some sort of action. None on his estate could possibly hope to best him with swords, so a bracing gallop on his favorite stallion it is.

The sun is barely above the horizon when he dresses himself—black boots, soft gray suede trousers, black waistcoat, and a simple gray jacket over a white linen shirt—and sends his valet off to the stables to ensure that his horse is saddled. If the servants make a note of his relative dishabille, they certainly do not comment on it in his hearing. He's donning his black suede riding gloves when Triton is brought out by one of the grooms; James accompanies the lad, tugging distractedly at his own coat while they approach their master. "Pardon the early intrusion, highness, but I did want to remind you that the Shepherd girl promised she would come today. Don't see as how she'll manage two days away so close together, but folk like her tend to be prompt when they make a promise."

"James, it is far too early for your round-about prattling. Speak plainly, man." The older servant looks down at his boots and clasps his hands behind his back at the rebuke, acutely conscious of the time where such surliness was mitigated by a genuine warmth and kindness.

"Very well, highness, since you have given leave. From what all I've heard, the girl has no one at all in the world except herself, sir. She tends her herd and her farm all on her lonesome, which means no servant to help with the chores and the heavy lifting. You asking to see her, making her come to you, I don't agree with it, sir. Every moment spent away from her land and her home is a moment where she can't protect and care for what's hers. And while she's done her level best to hold her own, there's some who've taken exception to that and would gladly see her come to ruin. Best to keep in mind when you go about commanding people that they have their own troubles to worry about. Highness."

If Killian hadn't been drilled by the greatest orators and rhetoricians of the day, he might have been in danger of looking like a gape-mouthed fish on a line. In all his years of service, nothing had ever prompted such an impassioned or eloquent speech out of James and certainly not one so liberally peppered with disapproval and disappointment. It certainly gave his master quite a lot to contemplate during his morning exercise.

Had he truly done more harm than good in seeking this girl out to thank her? He realizes shortly that it had never occurred to him to go to her—whether a favor was being requested or an honor bestowed, people always came to the king or whoever their superior might be. That was simply how things were done. Convinced he had the right of it and that his servant was hopelessly misguided—although, indeed the man's error stemmed from an overly zealous sense of gallantry—he continues his ride without another thought to having inconvenienced the girl.

He allows his mind to blank, to give himself and his body fully over to maintaining his seat and letting Triton thunder across the park at will. He leans over the horse's neck, carefully avoiding the lash of any low-hanging branches—a lesson learned as a child on his first stallion. Just as he's preparing to spur his mount on for a final burst of speed over the last mile of the park circuit, he catches a flash of gold and green off to his left and wordlessly commands the horse to slow to a halt. Triton understands the still anxiety of his master at some unknown danger, communicated in the quiver and clench of calf and thigh muscles and the low, steady voice.

Poachers are not unheard of, but he can think of no criminal so bold as to come this close to the manor while the morning light is strengthening. He urges Triton forward, carefully walking through the undergrowth so as to make as little noise as possible. This particular stretch of the park runs very close to the lawn, so it comes as no surprise when Killian sees the south side of the house through the thinning tree line. He considers leaving the cover of the trees or turning back toward the run when a vision steps out onto the grassy hill and into view.

Though the sun has not climbed high, her curls shimmer in the light—a golden, honeyed halo around a fair face. Though not untouched by days spent laboring in daylight, her skin is creamy and only gently kissed with freckles. Her full lips match the blush high on her cheekbones in color, and her button nose points upward slightly. Such graceful features should belong on a simpering, coquettish miss draped on the arm of some court gallant; yet in her face, it is the eyes that inform Killian that she is anything but a delicate ornament. Purpose and pride dance in those eyes like a burning flame behind bottle-green stained glass. He has a feeling that those fiery jewels could burn him to his very soul.

Though an old brown cloak conceals much, he can see that the dress she wears is most certainly not her own and at least twenty-five years out of fashion. He only recognizes the date of the style because his mother's last portrait reveals a woman modeling a similar cut to the dress—a long, simple skirt that falls straight from the beneath the bust and a scooped neckline with puffs near the shoulder and sleeves that extend to the wrist. He knows that the gown was not made for her—her obvious youth aside—because at least three inches of her boot-covered ankles can be seen and the neckline shows off much more of her breasts than is seemly. Not that you would find him complaining about the obvious bounty of nature on display.

Her hands which are currently wrapped around the edges of her cloak are not the hands of a lady of wealth and privilege, chapped and red as they are. Yet they are dainty and feminine all the same, her fingers slim and long. So many curious contradictions that leave him hungry to know more; she's a woman of hidden depths and secrets, and he yearns to discover each and every one. He smiles—a paltry, sickly one compared to his more genuine expression of happiness and delight, but since he has had very little occasion of late to call upon even a grin, he should be forgiven the poor appearance of it. She's clearly headed for Thistledown, chin set stubbornly and head held high as she strides across his property toward the stand of trees that line the avenue from the road, which means his thirst for knowledge will no doubt be sated shortly.

He doesn't question the racing of his heart, for once so wrapped up in the moment, in the thrill of the challenging unknown, that he doesn't recognize his own body's reactions and signals. He directs Triton back to the run, then spurs his mount back into a gallop that has them whipping through the avenue and racing around to approach the front door and his enigmatic guest from the North. The instant his horse's hooves hit the gravel, he sees the girl's spine draw straight and rigid, her raised hand poised in a fist at the level of her eye prepared to knock.

He had thought her a vision before when spied through shadowy woods; now, under the warm glow of sunlight, her beauty steals his breath and his wits. His blood, already up from his ride, flows directly to his cock—hard and aching and spectacularly brought to life unlike anything he's ever experienced before. The stab of primal need, the desire to take and possess, reverberates through his whole being in one painful, invigorating instant. He's enthralled, captured under the fierce scrutiny of those agate eyes, wanting more than anything to be the sole object of that gaze for all time. But then she breaks the spell with her voice.

"Your highness." He's never hated his title more than this moment, in which her breathy, enchanting tone made the honorific sound hollow, vain, and worthless. Only his name should be treated to those decadent, luxurious sounds, preferably uttered under the influence of sensual need and raw passion; her lips and tongue should only form and caress whatever he directs and desires them to. The sight of her dropping into a curtsy, properly displaying her subservience to him, sends a jolt of pure white heat up his spine; the stiffness of her body and those commanding eyes, which are now hidden from his view, tell him that this is not a woman who easily bends to anyone's will save her own. And he desperately desires to break and have her yield.

One of the stable boys skids to a halt next to Triton's head, panting harshly thanks to the sprint he must have made to get here so quickly. Killian dismounts and mutters something about making sure the stallion is properly cooled down and cared for before dismissing the lad. The girl remains in her inflexible curtsy, face averted and downcast, waiting for his instruction and recognition. He lets the moment stretch, wondering just how long he can have her meekly submitting like this. Her position must be difficult to maintain without losing her balance or tiring her—indeed, he finds it most curious that the daughter of a farmer knows how to perform a formal court curtsy at all—yet she neither trembles nor fidgets despite the lengthening silence between them.

Unable to resist her siren's call any longer, he ascends the stairs with more speed than grace. He stops, leaving very little room between their bodies, and can feel the heat radiating from her, beckoning him closer. Slowly, he slides his gloved fingers along her jaw to her chin and raises her face without permitting her to break the reverence. When she finally complies and looks up at him, another wild bolt of lust shoots through him; her gaze is hard, unyielding and challenging him as no subordinate or inferior should. He may be a prince of the realm, but in her unflinching eyes he is no better than she, and a part of him longs to forcibly disabuse her of that notion.

"Miss Shepherd, I presume." Something softens when she hears his voice, when she fully meets his eyes. A strange sort of fascination and wonder passes across her features, and a blushing awareness fills her being. Whether her mind wills it or not, her body responds to his presence, to his command—heat floods through her and makes the creamy flesh of her breasts and face become flushed and rosy, makes her breath catch in her throat (and unless his keen gaze misguides him, makes her nipples harden), and surely sends an unfamiliar, tingling warmth settling between her thighs.

He also sees the confusion that crosses her face at these physical changes and sensations and cannot help but smile at her. Clearly, this chance meeting will lead to many, many discoveries for both of them; he finds himself hoping that this encounter will lead to more like it. She belatedly jerks away from his hand, as if burned, and averts her gaze to the ground beneath them. "You summoned me, your highness, and so, here I am."

Though he hasn't stroked her skin without the barrier of a glove yet, he finds her withdrawal from contact disconcerting and unwelcome. He gives in to the urge to touch her again, takes both of her hands and helps her to rise, though she seems quite able to have accomplished the task on her own. "Indeed I did. Please, come in and be welcome to Thistledown Hall."

He lets go of her hand so that he can strip off his gloves and pass them to a servant. Task accomplished, he turns to take in her assessment of his home. He expected a quiet awe or overwhelmed delight in the high, dark beamed ceiling or the grey marble floors and staircase. The sense of regal permanence and ancient right should oppress her and inspire an appropriate sense of inferiority to be among those allowed to even temporarily grace the august dwelling with her presence. Yet the swords and the banners and the ornate design appear to have no effect whatsoever. Her clear, green gaze shows apathetic disdain rather than cowed timidity.

Killian finds himself even more intrigued by her lack of response, her refusal to be humbled. She seems unreal, a being out of myths and legends older than time, and he feels desperately compelled to touch her. With a flick of his wrist, he commands his servant back, taking the cloak from her shoulders himself and—helpless to stop himself—skimming his fingertips along the exposed skin of her collarbone and the arch where her neck meets her body. He watches the delicate, yet perceptible shiver that flits up her spine and observes the rising of chill bumps along her breasts. Clearly, the woman recognizes and desires the man; it remains to be seen whether Emma can be made to burn for him.

He passes the antiquated garment to his servant and takes his guest's hand forcibly in his, wrapping it around his arm proprietarily. "I apologize for not having a formal reception ready for you. As you can see, I was just taking my morning exercise and had no idea you would arrive so early. Potts, do send up to Francine and let her know to wake and dress Sophia. And have them meet us in the library."

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Emma does her best to suppress the fine trembling in her limbs that started the instant she looked at him from beneath her lashes and which worsened when his bare fingers brushed against her skin. She's never had less control over her body and its reactions than she does now, intensely aware of the prince's every movement, his every breath. The very air around them seems charged and volatile, as it would be if a storm was racing across the horizon. When he grips her hand and secures her close to him, she bites back a gasp at the way her sex clenches and her nipples tighten painfully in response to the burning line of heat he radiates.

She's no uneducated simpleton when it comes to matters between a man and a woman. She comprehends lust and need, though this is the first time she's ever been caught under their influence. Indeed, her complete indifference to men in general and to the rituals of courtship in particular were part of the reason that so many suitors needed less than gentle persuasions to leave her in peace—each one presumed that he was the lone man capable of breaking through her icy calm, only to discover that _their_ darts of love were just as repellent to her as the next. Rejection and open disgust were not the predetermined, expected outcome, leaving a trail of broken pride and outraged vanity in the wake of their failed passing.

Not a single one of them, though one or two had been kinder or more handsome than this prince, had managed to cause even a whisper of sensation or longing within her. Yet this dark, brooding gentleman with turbulent, grief-stricken ocean eyes brought forth a veritable boiling cauldron of emotions and thoughts and unspoken desires through her being. All with a few pointed looks, a gentle smile, and the most innocuous of touches he kindles an unlooked for fire that both excites and terrifies her.

She knows that the manor dwarfs anything she's ever dreamed of, yet she hardly sees any of the fine details that he could boast about. But the artwork and the suits of armor, the date of construction and the materials brought in from all across the realms, the pomp and pedigree and all the other flourishes that have gone into the reverend pile that is Thistledown Hall go unlauded by their owner and unappreciated by their guest. Instead, Emma becomes more and more keenly aware of the prince's scrutiny, more sensitive to the physical response of her body to his critical gaze. After what seems an eternity, the prince leads her through a set of thick wooden doors into the largest single room she's ever seen.

The library is easily greater in volume than her barn, all walls lined with bookshelves save the width of an enormous fireplace. The ceiling seems lost in the air, three stories above them—each storey has its own small balcony wrapped about it, and a metal staircase near the doors allows one to ascend to the next level. But compared to the man who finally releases his hold on her arm and helps her into a plush seat, it cannot beguile her attention. The prince keeps her hand in his, far longer than would be considered appropriate, yet she neither wants him to loosen his grip nor dare she suggest it.

Suddenly, he laughs, and her only thought is that he must be finding his amusement at her expense, giving her the courage to break his grip. Emma folds her hands in her lap and continues her silent examination of the carpeted floor. "I must say, Miss Shepherd, I find you a curiosity. You are nothing like what I expected."

Her eyes flash with fury when they rise to meet his. "And what were you led to expect from me, your highness?"

He sits gracefully in the chair opposite her, elegantly flicking his coat tails out of the way and crossing the ankle of his right leg over his left knee. He leans his chin upon his palm, eyes riveted to her and seeming to draw every minute detail and thought from her body and mind. But she doesn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he has unnerved her with his thorough examination. "If my daughter is to be believed, you are some good angel or fairy godmother who flitted down and danced with her for a moment. My servants certainly thought you some benevolent creature of fable, since you arrived seemingly from the ether in order to pluck a small girl from the very jaws of Death himself, only to disappear on a puff of wind.

"I see before me a beautiful young woman, one who wears dignity and grace the way other women wear skirts and corsets. And yet, if my footman and courier is to be believed, you are a hard working farmer and shepherd who has managed to hold her lands in her own right for the past four years or more; an orphan, whose father died valiantly in battle and whose mother has passed as well. Independent, strong and imperious—beholden to no one. It seems the more I hear, the less I know."

"One should not always credit the tales that are borne to them, nor can the eyes be expected to do anything but deceive. Your highness."

Killian smirks, amused again by the contradiction of hearing philosophy from the mouth of a peasant, regardless of how luscious and seductive said mouth is. "Curious that such sophistry finds so humble a vessel. Then perhaps you should inform me just who you are, Miss Shepherd."

Emma spreads her hands in an open gesture. "The simplest explanation is often truest. I am indeed a farmer and a shepherd, raised by parents who loved each other deeply and loved their only child as well. My father was called to the front and died in the war when I was 13, and my mother died of a broken heart eight years later. I have been on my own ever since. But what I find curious, your highness, is why a prince would bother hearing tales about a peasant."

Killian's smile fades quickly, an intense brooding filling the silence after her question. "You have known loss and grief, Miss Shepherd. You say that your mother died of a broken heart, so you know what it is to watch someone fade into nothingness, wasting away because they cannot bear to be separated from their true love. But I tell you, Miss Shepherd, that even greater than the cruel torment of losing one's mate is the loss of one's child. I have been burdened with the one fate, but you saved me from the second."

He stands abruptly, pacing in front of the fireplace. The warm glow of the fire casts his face in shadows and darkness, so that Emma can only dimly read the agony in his expression. He turns toward her again, eyes glistening with unshed tears and intensely fixed on her. "Even contemplating the fact that she could have been lost to me has tortured my waking and sleeping hours since the day before last… Why?! What possessed you to risk your life? Those who know my Sophia call her enchanting, yet you had never met her. I cannot fathom why you would hazard all for a stranger, unless death holds no power over you or life no meaning."

She swallows, uncomfortable under his burning, implacable gaze. "I'm not sure how to explain it in a way you would understand, your highness. The world is full of evils and ills and accidents, but I was raised to believe that if one can help ease another's burden or do anything to prevent a tragedy, then that person must do so. I have no children of my own, and yet I can understand the grief that would have descended on this house if Sophia had been hurt or killed. No one else was close enough—the rider was thrown, the horse master was unable to calm the beast or snatch his reins… I do not say this to place blame on either man.

"The fact of the matter remains, your highness. Even if there were those who would have mourned my death or injury, or even were she an orphan with no friends as I am, it would still have been the right thing to do, to try and save your daughter."

Emma internally quails as his eyes become even more determinedly fixed on her face, more piercing as if trying to pluck her very soul from her body so that he may more closely examine it. But she refuses to let her discomfort and distress show until he lunges forward, kneeling at her feet and gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that his whole hand turns white. She lets out the softest gasp at his nearness and ferocity. His eyes continue to flicker back and forth before descending to gaze at her lips, then the long line of her throat, her breasts, her lap. She feels her steely resolve begin to melt beneath his heat, his presence, and shies the slightest bit away from him.

Her breath hitches when she senses a change in his body, an alertness that has him scenting the air. It's only once she returns her gaze to his face that she realizes she had been devouring the lines of his thighs, the strong breadth of his chest, and all the hard planes and parts in between with her eyes. His hand shoots out between them and grasps her wrist in the vise of his fingers; the pain sends a delicious shiver down her spine, and she cannot completely contain a whimper. But instead of twisting away, her body sways toward his instinctively, searching for more. His grip becomes impossibly tight, yet she does not retreat from him. His pupils have dilated, leaving a thin ring of bright blue. Some expression of her face causes him to shudder and then slowly release his grasp one finger at a time.

The doors open noisily, and the buddle of bright energy that is Sophia dances into the room, breaking the uncanny stalemate between pauper and prince. He takes her still suspended hand and places a kiss to her knuckles before turning to address his daughter. The child bounces past her father and springs directly into Emma's lap, startling her into the present once more. She spends most of the morning chatting with and entertaining the little girl while Killian mutely looks on, his face at times intensely brooding with the raw, passionate sensuality that had suffused it before Sophia's interruption, at others distant and thoughtful.

As the noon hour approaches, she has done nothing more than entertain the child and so asks to be dismissed to go home. The prince absentmindedly grants her permission, despite his daughter's pouting sadness at being parted from her fairy savior once more. Genuinely enchanted by Sophia's spirit, Emma makes promises to return or to have the girl visit her on her farm—her father permitting, of course. By the time they reach the door and the prince presses another kiss to her knuckles and one to the inside of her wrist, their eyes locked on each other throughout, she is more than ready to run all the way to Agrabah if means avoiding that too knowing gaze. She settles for sprinting through the woods, only stopping once the door of her cottage is locked securely behind her—a flimsy, yet imminently desirable barrier between her and the unknown.

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Killian sits in the midnight darkness of the library staring at the chair Emma Shepherd sat in several hours ago, the crackling fire doing little to dispel the brooding gloom around him. The flames certainly cannot compare to the inferno of primitive need that raged between them earlier and warmed his blood. He feels as though he has passed through a long winter and then found himself not just in springtime, but in the very center of the sun itself. He burns, hotter than a brand in a smith's forge, and the sensation unnerves.

He had loved his wife—loves her still, and had desired her fiercely. Yet Milah had been gently-bred and raised; he had always been conscious of his duty to be temperate in his wants, because one simply did not ask for noble ladies to indulge their husband's carnal, earthy hungers. That's why whores were practitioners of the world's oldest profession—to satisfy needs that were too depraved for men's wives.

And yet this young woman, whose appearance at least is just as refined and delicate as any duke's daughter, inspires an unslakeable lust in his body and soul. A friendless orphan who has every right to expect his kindness for the debt he owes her, to expect his gratitude for the sacrifices her family has made on behalf of his, to expect his protection as his brother's subject… And yet he adamantly resolves to push all such moral and ethical considerations aside in a visceral compulsion to utterly dominate and possess her.

His goal and course defined, Killian springs up, knocking his glass of wine onto the carpet in his haste. He strides purposefully to his desk, whips out a sheet of paper, and composes a brief message. After sanding and sealing the missive, he rings for one of the footmen—not James—and instructs the man to deliver the message to the Shepherd farm on the morrow. Trapped now between his choice and the intervening hours until her reply, he retires for the evening and somehow manages to find a modicum of peace.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay... So, normally, I try and respond to every single review, because I feel that it's only polite of me to acknowledge the fact that you, my lovely reader, took time out of your day to not just hang out and enjoy the story, but also to let me know how my words touched you and made you feel. However, the overwhelming consensus out there was that you all wanted MORE; so, I took a gamble and thought that instead of answering each review, I'd just spend my time writing the next chapter. So, to those of you I haven't had a chance to thank personally, I love you and hope you keep enjoying the story; it means more than I can say that you all like what I'm writing. Special thanks to the lovely Anja, for being my cheerleader/writing motivator and always pushing for more smut! (: I've got a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough with your name on it, sweetie!**

* * *

He prowls the halls restlessly, finding himself unable to sleep. The old house is silent, not even the night's watchmen making a sound in their vigilant rounds. For some unknown reason, he finds himself drawn to the library. He expects no one to be there, and yet he is unsurprised to find the siren waiting for him, dressed in diaphanous silks the color of flames. There's no fire in the hearth, yet the room is sweltering hot and dimly lit, heat a radiating from the golden-haired temptress barely concealed in the shadows.

Killian cannot resist her pull, submits to her thrall as he stalks closer and closer. Her thighs are spread wide open, one leg draped over the arm of his chair. The shameless, gluttonous lips of her sex are deep, dark pink and glistening brightly with her juices in the low light, as is her delicate, hooded pearl of flesh. Her head is thrown back in licentious display, yet her wanton, glowing green eyes pin him in place. He watches as her nipples bud and blossom under her touch, peeking through the filmy veils of fabric swathing her body—his every fantasy breathed into exceptionally lovely life and form.

Her neck arches farther back and she sighs, fingers drifting lower to fondle and tease her hungry, quivering cunt. Every sound she makes draws him closer—lures him closer to her, closer to his own raging desire for satisfaction. She whimpers as she begins to circle the swollen bundle of nerves at the top of her sex, panting breaths and slicked skin causing him to lick his lips eagerly. The scent of her arousal perfumes the air, bringing him to his knees with the fervent _**need**_ to bury his tongue, his fingers, his marble-hard length in her wet, welcoming quim. He thought himself desperate for her before, but then she speaks in a low purr and he is positively undone. "Take me, my Prince. I am yours."

Killian wakes, gasping in longing agony. His cock is absolutely rigid, a sheen of pre-come liberally beading across the head. He's never been one to be ruled by his body's whims, yet he cannot deny himself this urgent release. He drags his palm across the tip and crown, spreading the moisture before gripping his shaft tightly in his fist and stroking. He can feel that he's already frantically close, so he imagines the slick heat of Emma Shepherd's body, visualizes the way her pink tongue would flick across her lips and how he'd longed to have that mouth wrapped around him.

He sees her breasts, as they were in that too small gown and in his dream, how all that soft, smooth skin would feel sliding against his prick or underneath his own mouth. He imagines fucking her, how her pussy would flutter and clench, would milk his seed from him as he pounded into her lush confines from behind. He can practically hear the moans of pleasure, the screams, the whimpers. He has a sudden image of her kneeling on his bed, eyes covered with a blindfold and hands bound behind her back; waiting for his orders, waiting for him, waiting to be whipped into a panting, desperate lather or delighted at his will.

The last thought finishes him, orgasm practically wrenched forth from his body, his back arches off the bed and his vision dimming almost completely. Hot semen jets out in a seemingly endless stream, landing along his stomach and on the sheets as his breath comes out in harsh, yet sated grunts. If he had gone to bed with honorable thoughts and intensions, the dream and his desire of the morning would have washed them clean away.

* * *

After she had taken a long while to still her heart and slow her breathing, Emma had lovingly removed her mother's dress and put it back in the cedar wardrobe. She lingered for quite some time, fingers reverently and wonderingly stroking the still supple kid-leather gloves, the satin slippers, and the velvet skirts before quickly locking the cupboard and dropping the key into the pocket of her heavy-weather coat. The time to ask her questions has long since passed, and farmer's daughters and shepherdesses have no business wearing such fine, fancy things anyway.

She'd proceeded to throw herself into her chores for the day, thanking her stars that the garden remained neat and tidy as she had left it the day before and her animals were all penned up safely in the locked barn. Then she'd taken a perverse pleasure in sinking down to her very arms, deep into the soil to exterminate the weeds and aerate last year's fallow plot. Her abused body had not been grateful for her additional poor treatment of it, so she had had to make several trips back and forth from her well to get enough water for a copper-tub bath. She'd soaked in the oil-scented water until long after it had gone cold, before brushing her long hair to dry in front of the blazing fire and finally, climbing into the loft and dropping exhausted into her bed.

Though she cannot remember any dreams this morning, she awakes restless and uncomfortable. She ascribes her unusual feeling to the fact that she seldom has time for idleness and two days spent away from her normal labors have left her with a need to reclaim her usual purposefulness. She dresses quickly and heads to the barn, releasing the chickens and most of the herd, but keeping back the few unseasonably pregnant ewes to check their progress. She finishes with the last one, an older sheep which will probably need to be sterilized to save her from future complications or will not survive this final pregnancy, when she hears a stranger's voice calling her.

A horse and his dismounted rider come around the corner of her cottage just as she exits the barn and lets the ewe out into the pasture. She groans internally, recognizing the livery as Prince Killian's, and wonders what more could her royal neighbor possibly want with her. Emma does not however recognize the servant—a tall and handsome, yet shy lad about her age or a bit younger—who ducks his head and avoids her eye as she approaches. "Mistress Shepherd? I—I saw ye yesterday at the Hall. I—I'm supposed—I was commanded last night by his highness to give ye this letter."

He awkwardly thrusts the parchment toward her, the folded paper still sealed, but with smudges on all the surfaces indicating repeated pensive handling. The area where her name is written in a curling script seems to have been a favored spot for the caressing of calloused, imperfectly clean hands. Not the prince then, but his messenger. Emma accepts the letter, careful not to touch the servant's fingers as they lingeringly cling to the edges of the stationery. "I presume that you are to wait for my reply."

He shuffles his feet, scuffing his boots against the packed earth and grass and still refusing to meet her direct gaze. "He didn't rightly say, mistress."

"It's Miss, actually, but since he wanted a reply last time, I shall assume he wants one now as well. Let's get some water for your horse and get out of the sun at least." Emma strides around him toward the well, again, careful to avoid brushing up against him or touching him in any way. While she can appreciate that he finds her attractive and desirable, and can sympathize with his timid nature, she finds the combination of the two quite distracting, as well as off-putting, and sincerely does not wish to encourage his interest.

She shows him to the well and points out the location of the trough before heading toward her cottage and opening the letter. The contents, as she scans it, make her pick up speed—to put a greater distance between herself and the footman, who clearly knows nothing of the missive's contents, and to find a more private and comfortable spot onto which she can sit and contemplate the enormity of the proposition placed before her.

_Let us not play games or pretend that what passed between us was anything remotely similar to proper or polite, Miss Shepherd. The instant I saw you, I was absolutely consumed with need, burned and burdened by desire as I have not experienced in an age. I know you felt the same. Did you think or hope that I didn't notice the way your body trembled, the way your blush of wanting spread down your breasts and no doubt even further? Had my daughter not interrupted us, I would have cast aside all restraint and plunged into the delectable, moist heat waiting for me between your thighs. Would you have tried to stop me had I dared?_

_I think we both know that you would not have wanted to. Deny it all you like, but you burn for me as well, longing to be instructed in and introduced to all manner of carnal delights. And I want to take these coals and watch them become an inferno. I will master you, make you bend and submit to my control, and in return, I will give you pleasure unlike anything you could ever know. I will teach you all the ways your body can serve to give pleasure and to receive pleasure, and then I will show you even more. I will know neither rest nor peace until I have your willing, pliant body beneath me, until I bury us in the decadent and the erotic desires we were made for. You have nothing to lose and the world to gain by submission and acceptance._

The lack of signature matters little, as the penmanship precisely matches that of the previous letter he sent. Emma's eyes search the parchment yet again, unable to process and believe what lies directly in front of her. The words unerringly call back to mind the sensations that had overwhelmed her the day before—the thoughts and the longings the Prince's presence had inspired in her—and oh, so sweetly attempt to seduce her into accepting his proposal. She trembles again with a heretofore unknown, dangerously piercing yearning for all the sensual bliss his offer represents. Yet he speaks only of sated lusts and unfathomable pleasures, obviously ignorant or uncaring of the responsibilities and duties that circumscribe her life just as completely as his.

"M—Miss Shepherd, ma'am? Do—do you have a reply for his highness?" The footman startles Emma out of her thoughts with his stammering query, taking up much of the space and light in the small cottage by blocking the doorway.

"I will. If you please, give me a moment, and I will have a return message shortly."

* * *

Killian paces alone in the library. He should have his nose buried in the various account books and ledgers for the estate, yet he has been distracted all morning, despite knowing that his messenger left immediately after breakfast. He is certain of her answer as only a royal personage can be, never truly denied anything he has ever wanted or considered his due, nor never having come across an individual who was not sinfully eager to exploit a position of such implied confidence with him. In short, his only anxiety was in expecting her affirmative and the soonest possible commencement of their liaison.

He had left the double doors open in anticipation of his servant's arrival, thus handily beckoning the man into the room before he can knock and allowing for swifter receipt of her answer. The footman strides in confidently and places a crudely sealed bit of poor, pulpy parchment in the prince's hand. The wax is a cheap, sulfuric yellow and smells partly of rendered animal fat—the only saving grace of the paltry thing being a tiny buttercup flower pressed into the sealing wax to help mask the odor and serve in place of a seal, no doubt.

"Did she seem pleased by the message?" His servant starts as if struck by a bolt, clearly not having expected to pay attention to such details in addition to faithfully fulfilling his stated duty. Killian internally curses the fact that he couldn't have sent James or another equally adept servant on this particular mission. The older men, versed in the worldly ways and intrigues of court dalliances, would have known precisely what manner of missive was being sent and known to watch for clues of the addressee's feelings and reaction to the letter, as was done when Killian sent his first, more innocent invitation to Miss Shepherd.

"Well, after I found the young Miss, she suggested I tend to your horse at first, highness, making sure he had plenty to drink for his pains. When I was done, I stood just inside the door for a bit, because she were reading your lordship's letter and I didn't wish to interrupt. But I did have to clear my throat twice and knock to get her attention after a few minutes—more than enough time for her to have read it, highness. Then I asked if she had a reply for your highness, and she said that she would. Then she wrote on that paper there and sealed it, and made me promise not to try and take a peek; but I told her that I'd never betray your lordship's trust like that, but that to do so any rate would be most improper."

The younger man beams at him after this rather long, pointless, and uninformative recitation of events, and despite his own pique, he smiles as if the boy has done well. "Thank you, Graham. That will be all."

He closes the doors before heading back to his desk for his penknife and places the letter carefully on the blotter. He sits for a moment, just staring at it, letting the bitterly sharp edge of his desire and anticipation become keener. Finally, his impatience for satisfaction gets the better of him and he breaks the seal.

_Your Royal Highness,_

_I am overwhelmed by the amount of respect and trust in my discretion that your offer signifies, as I am also aware of the great honor with which such proposals are most often regarded in certain circles. Regardless, I cannot in good conscience accept. Your highness condescends far too much to think of me, nor—as I am certain you will conclude upon further examination of the matter—can you afford to ignore the extremity of our positions. Besides being unfit for such an exalted position as your design would create for me, I have a duty to hold my father's lands in his name and cannot neglect that which has been entrusted to my stewardship._

_I promise that nothing you have said shall ever be uttered by me, and indeed, I have every intension of consigning your letter to the flames immediately after this reply departs._

_With sincere gratitude,_

_Emma Shepherd_

He reacts first with all-encompassing shock and enraged bluster, yet when his pricked pride manages to abate for a moment, he cannot help being impressed by the gracious audacity with which she refuses him. He finds absolutely no faults with her choice of words, deftly appealing to his vanity and social acumen while stubbornly resisting any implications of her own subservience to him. The fascinating riddle of the farmer's daughter only increases in its complexity and enflames his desire to know more. He firmly and unequivocally convinces himself that it is not the thrill of the chase, the excitement of discovery, nor the yearning to possess that which has been denied to him which prompt him to reexamine his approach, rather than dropping the matter altogether.

* * *

_To His Royal Majesty, King William II, etc.,_

_Greetings, brother. You shall be pleased to know that the estate prospers and thrives, despite the many years that have passed since we last lived here in our youth. The land has been well tended and superbly managed, though the house has fallen into disrepair through neglect and long absence—yet such things will unfortunately happen over time. As you directed, all needs for new furnishings and appointments have been properly catalogued and orders placed accordingly. Provided artisans and workmen can be hired with due speed, and should you not decide to spring an early arrival upon us, Thistledown Hall should be ready for your august inhabitation within three months' time._

_Your niece continues to be as lovely and mercurial as ever, constantly comparing her "silly Papa" unfavorably with her beloved and much missed Uncle Liam. Every night she goes to bed anticipating that you shall appear each morn with the coming of the dawn, despite repeated attempts by Francine to instill some sense and knowledge of time into her young mind._

_I fear I must recount a small piece of news that might disturb you, so I suggest a comfortably reclined position when you read the next few lines; I do not share this to alarm and discomfit you, but rather to illuminate a strange curiosity. The other day, at my wits' end trying to balance the cares of a father with the duties of lord of the manor, I allowed Francine and a trusted servant to take Sophia into the village to see the delights of the market. And as children will, my daughter managed to slip away from her minders long enough to find trouble or, rather, to allow trouble to find her._

_Apparently, an inexperienced rider was trying the paces of an unpredictable mount, and the beast, taking advantage of the less than firm hand of his minder, bucked the poor fellow and proceeded to run wild through the streets of the town. Indeed, by all accounts, there was absolutely no chance of stopping the horse, which was barreling directly toward an entirely unsuspecting Sophia. Yet, by some miracle or divine interference, a young woman happened to be nearby, saw the imminent danger to this stranger's child, dashed in front of the viciously pawing hooves, and swept my daughter to safety at the risk of her own._

_This woman then seemingly vanished, ensuring only that the child was unharmed and reunited with Francine before abandoning the scene of her heroic deed. She did not ask who Sophie was, nor did she seek recognition, and it took my best man James the better part of a day to discover her identity. Indeed, my daughter and my servant were at first convinced that the woman was a benevolent fairy sent to watch over Sophia._

_And this, brother, is what leads to my point of curiosity. The young woman, one Emma Shepherd by name, owns and tends the land that neighbors the estate; her father was killed in the last wars, and her mother was taken by a wasting illness some four years past. When I invited the girl to the Hall in order to express gratitude for her salvation of my daughter, the strangest creature appeared at my doorstep. Her dress, while clearly the best in her possession, must have belonged to her mother, for it was ill-fitted and decidedly old-fashioned. Yet it was certainly once a gown worthy of a lady at court, as it was very similar in cut and quality to the one Mother wears in her official portrait. Indeed, Miss Shepherd herself, in form and face and manner, appears well appointed and decidedly capable to grace the loftiest of houses despite her humble state. Furthermore, the young woman has been and remains incredibly well-educated, for she was able to deftly and philosophically spar with me._

_I have searched back through the ledgers and account books for the Hall, yet I can find no record of our family ever having contact or commerce with the residents of Shepherd Farm. But something does not sit right in my mind, like some niggling itch that's begging to be scratched yet remains beyond reach. Despite the young woman's protests that she neither needs nor looks for a reward, I cannot rest easy until I have found a way to repay this great debt that has been forged between us. Any counsel or wisdom that you could impart to illuminate this conundrum, dear brother, would be most welcome._

_As always, Sophia sends her love and a kiss to her favorite uncle—and reminds me to remind you of your promise to bring her "something pretty" when you make your progress. (For the love of the gods, brother, don't let it be anything pink!) I pray that your strength and health remain fixedly superior, both as your subject and as the younger brother who would be lost without you. I am, as always, your obedient servant,_

_Killian, Regis Fil._

* * *

The sun rises above the horizon, and the rooster crows his welcome, yet Emma remains tucked under the covers and unwilling to move from the warmth of her bed. She spent another night tossing and turning, her sleep disturbed by nightmares and worries that her waking mind cannot recall or assign a name to. Before her father's death, she had never been troubled by any fear of mortality at all; her mother's grief had been so acute that death had been welcomed as kindly spirit; since then, the only fear that has haunted her has been the loss of her home, the loss of choices and independence. Yet she knows instinctively that this looming, unseen terror of her dreams will bring more chaos and leave her more than simply bereft; she just cannot imagine what could possibly be so great as to utterly destroy her and her simple life.

She closes her eyes and turns her face so that the sunbeams breaking through the thatching fall on her, warming her skin and chasing away the shadowy anxieties of the night. Unable to ignore the prompting of her hungry stomach or her prickling conscience any longer, she tosses off the bedcovers and grabs her shift from the peg on the wall near her head. She bunches the fabric in her hand and slips it over her out-stretched arms and head, letting the rough fabric slip down her body as it wills while she backs down the ladder to the ground floor of the cottage.

She begins to hum as she slips around the ladder, reaching for the water bucket kept near the hearth. She turns around toward the door, arm holding the bucket blithely swinging backward when she freezes, completely shocked and not quite able to process what she sees for the second time in as many days. Prince Killian sits in her father's chair, booted feet stretched out and crossed in front of him, his riding crop gently marking time along with the tune she had been humming. Emma feels the belated urge to cover herself, to press her hands over the flesh he had no doubt glimpsed bare only a few moments ago, but she resists the futile and empty gesture. As he said in his letter, pretense and false propriety are alike senseless between two people as viscerally aware of each other as they are.

"Are you always so confident in the attraction your person holds for one of the opposite sex, or is it the knowledge that your position preserves you from any attempted persecution for crimes such as breaking and entering?" If she had thought it impossible for his eyes to burn any fiercer, she is swiftly disabused of the notion as he watches her every movement when she boldly speaks and continues to stand unabashedly before him. She feels more than naked, stripped so that her very soul is exposed to his unwavering, implacable gaze. His intense expression softens slightly as his lips assume an amused smirk.

"Why do I have the feeling that that particular question is more of a stiletto's strike than a double-edged blade, my dear? Nevertheless, such a rhetorical barb deserves an honest parry. While up to this point in my life, my rank and wealth have prevented me from ever feeling the pinch of want, it has recently been made emphatically and abundantly obvious that they count for nothing when it comes to possessing the one thing I have ever desired with such a purity of focus. And yes, I dare to ascribe 'purity' to the strange, single-minded yearning with which I want you. Nothing has ever been as crystalline clear to me as this. Which is why I am prepared to perform the most unusual and uncomfortable feats for you, my dear Emma."

"I am neither yours, nor am I dear to you."

"But you will, because despite having the moral high ground on all counts, you have yet to throw me out of your home nor have you asked me to leave; which means you can only have been interested by my offer and have denied it primarily for the personal concerns you expressed in your letter of rejection, and not because you found the prospect of submitting your body and pleasure to me loathsome. The social objections you brought up mean nothing to me, and since according to all I have heard you have done nothing to ever court the favor and good report of others, I must conclude that they truly mean nothing to you as well. And since I refuse on principle to receive any visitors to my home who are neither family nor servants of long standing, there can be no one who could possibly discover the truth of our connection and expose it to public scrutiny."

Killian stands and prowls closer to her as he warms to his subject. His arrogant assurance—that he will own her and that she longs to be possessed—should have her reaching for her father's battered sword, just like she did with every other man who had ever foolishly darkened her door and claimed to be offering her his love and devotion. Yet the prince does not prevaricate by speaking of tender emotions and a gentle, chivalrous yearning; his desire for her is primal, carnal, passionate, and he rebuffs every opportunity to deceitfully persuade her otherwise. The rough heat of his palm against her cheek brings her forcibly back into the present moment with him, makes her even more keenly aware of the fire dancing in the air between them and the aching response of her body to his.

"I fully empathize with the affection and care you hold for your land, for your father's inheritance, Emma. As my father's son, one of the first duties instilled in me was the need to protect and serve the needs of the kingdom, and what is a kingdom except the land and the people who tend it? Though you may not know it, your parents most assuredly trained you to be more than a simple shepherdess or an honest farmer's wife; you are intelligent, skilled, and educated, and as part of our bargain, I wish you to pass your knowledge on to my daughter. She needs a teacher, now, to begin the lessons which will give her an appreciation for those who are not her equal in birth and a love for the land which shall be her birthright. Your days will be spent at Thistledown Hall, filling her head with the wisdom that will aid and guide her when she becomes queen, while carefully selected tenants will keep your farm and herd prospering.

"Your nights will be given over to my will, and my will shall ever be pleasure. Your body, Emma, is an exquisite instrument, and I intend to learn how to play your every note, test and try each string simply to see the heights and the depths of which you are capable of attaining. You will know more about yourself and the delights of the flesh than you could possibly imagine exists. I will make you sing, and none shall ever hear your song save us two. Share your skills and knowledge with my daughter, share your bed and body with me willingly, and you need never fear for the safety of your lands and home again." The hand that had cupped her face wanders into her hair and down the slope of her neck, fingers flexing, digging into the skin hard enough to bruise, and yet her response is to lean into the unforgiving caresses. Emma's world and vision narrow to the man before her, to the enticing words flowing from his silver tongue, to the exciting ruthlessness of his touch.

She whimpers, thoroughly aroused and entirely seduced by the images his words paint in her mind and the echoing yearning that vibrates through body and soul, and lets him draw her close to him. She's never been so desperate to finally feel and know and experience all that his carefully selected phrases have stated and implied. She places her fingers against his lips to halt his speech, softly crying out when he playfully nips the pads of her fingertips and moves her hand to his stubbled jaw and neck. He cautiously leans closer—nostrils flaring to take in her natural perfume, her heady, intoxicating scent—and brushes his nose against her cheek before lightly blowing his moist breath along the exposed skin of her neck, her shoulder.

When she shivers delicately and weakly sways forward, he catches her with a scalding hot arm around her waist and his burning lips against her fragile collarbone. He cautiously, gently kisses a path upward, before his tongue traces the shell of her ear, and her earlobe is caught between his teeth and given a tug just on the pleasurable side of painful. "Say the words, Emma. Seal the promise that your body is already making to me right now. No going back and no chance to claim that you have misunderstood. Do you want this? Do you want me, Emma?"

She pulls back, just enough to place his face between her palms and study his lust-drugged gaze with her clear green eyes. He sees her drowning in her own desire for him, for the things he can and will do to her body, yet her soul looks back at him as well, completely in accord with the rest of her being. "I will be yours, Killian."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, so the chapter is slightly shorter than normal, but I figured you guys will love it anyway. Also, for those of you who were concerned by Emma's "sudden change of heart," hopefully this chapter will more appropriately address that. It's one of the sad limitations of language that we can process more thoughts in a moment than we are capable of expressing in the same amount of time with words. Please keep in mind as well that this is an AU story, and as such, Emma and Killian will behave in different ways than they necessarily would in the show. Hope you lovelies enjoy! (: -JJ**

* * *

"Say the words, Emma. Seal the promise that your body is already making to me right now. No going back and no chance to claim that you have misunderstood. Do you want this? Do you want me, Emma?"

In truth, there isn't a single part of her that doesn't long to cast aside all caution and unreservedly accept his control, yet it is this overwhelming compulsion which prompts her to resist and delay. She has done all in her power these last 12 years to keep herself free and independent and she cannot deny that her path has left her exhausted and lonely. To belong to another, to not have to carry her burdens and manage all cares alone form the core of her deepest, secret yearnings; yet she refuses to sacrifice her freedoms in order to have what she craves.

She studies him carefully, suddenly confused to be staring at—let alone embracing—the proud Prince dwarfing her humble home with his presence; he finds himself darkening the door of a poor cottage for the first time in his life, no doubt, supplicant to a woman who owes him fealty. He could have commanded her compliance—indeed, he could have climbed up into her bed only moments ago and claimed what he desires, and there would have been no recourse for her, no possible way to either deny him or to receive justice afterward. She sees him with overwhelming clarity in that instant: a man who yearns for her womanly body, yet who also desperately longs to be desired simply as a man and not a title. His regal pride will not allow him to beg, so he has convinced himself that he can persuade and seduce her with his sweet words of gentle domination and benevolent rule.

Emma briefly wonders if she has the courage it takes to see this through, if the risk of being discovered in his arms is worth more than fully knowing herself. In giving herself unreservedly to the prince in the bedroom, she can be free to explore her body and her pleasure without being slavishly bound as she would to a husband. He will strictly control their passions and deftly manage the reins, but he will only have that ability so long as she is willing to place them into his care—it will never be his legal right to own her, and therein lays her own mastery of him. For the first time, Emma feels what it must be like to have power over another, the pull to use it dangerously intoxicating. "I will be yours, Killian."

A shudder of desire ripples through his body at her words, his expression suddenly brimming with smug satisfaction, but also pure and simple joy. His arm around her tightens, crushing her to his chest. When he moves to capture her lips and secure their bargain, she once again presses her fingertips against mouth. "I will be yours, Killian, but only so long as I may remain my own. First, I promise to train and educate your daughter in the womanly arts; in exchange for my lessons with her, _I_ will select the men and women who will tend my herd and farm and home while you see to their wages. I have a small amount of funds from which I can purchase clothing appropriate to a servant in your household, unless it is your custom to provide your liegemen with such as part of their yearly income.

"Second, I do want you, Killian, as a woman desires a man; you will instruct me in the ways of pleasure, teach me the heights and the depths I am capable of, and whether you find me an apt student or not, I always will do my best to please you. But the only coin to pass between us in this agreement shall be sensual; I want no gold, no fine clothes, no baubles, and no gifts from you.

"You are correct when you claim that I care nothing for what my neighbors and the world thinks of me, but I cannot afford to have it rumored that I am your kept whore. Because once a woman allows herself the public weakness of giving herself over to a man's authority, other men will presume that they can step in and take away her control over her own life once she is deprived of protection. My body and my pleasure cannot be bought, your highness; I offer to share them with you freely, so long as you do not push me beyond endurance and you protect my name from slanders. I will be yours on these terms, and these terms alone. Do you concede, Killian?"

* * *

Hearing her agree to be his and the sound of his name being caressed by her lips sends an ache through his whole being, as if some wrenched or dislocated bone has been finally slipped back into its proper alignment. It takes more determination and sheer self-control than it should to openly attend to her demands, and yet he does not make the mistake of viewing anything she says as being a polite request.

He understands her needs and the logic behind each restriction she places on him; although he'd love nothing more than to drape her in fantastically colored silks and lavishly deck her body in jewels, the appearance of such things in her possession would undoubtedly spark others' interest and commentary. Regardless, even when she's clothed in rough homespun and has dirt on her bare feet, Emma Shepherd has the pride and bearing of a duchess, effortlessly commanding his respect and further increasing his wondering desire.

Her pride made her spurn his first offer, makes her place shackles of sense and reason upon their public conduct and outward relationship; his pride may yet prove the undoing of them both, but he was willing to make a small sacrifice of it in order to bind her to him in some way. Conceding to her demands is easy in the present, as he cannot imagine a future where his blood does not sear his veins with need for her and thus has plenty of time in which to overwhelm her and beguile her with the luxuries he envisions heaping in her lap.

The fingers of his one hand still buried in her hair, he slips the other from around her waist to the delectable curve of her _derriere_. He lifts her up, off her toes, grinding his erection into the soft roundness of her mound and belly just inches above where she aches for him. "What manner of fool would refuse such sweet terms of surrender? What idiot could resist so beautiful and delightful a conqueror? Say it again, dear Emma. Please say it again."

He scatters light kisses across her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and her eyelids, still holding her face as if cradling something delicate, precious, sacred. She allows herself the smallest upturning at the corners of her mouth, yet its appearance makes his knees weak; her smiles are so rare, but they transform her fresh, simple beauty into transcendent radiance. She dazzles him and resonates with some unknown place in his soul, compounding his strange unconquerable need for her. He moans when her lips press against his of their own accord. "I will be yours, Killian. I and my body shall serve to pleasure you and yours. I want you; I want to learn what you like, what you desire, what you crave. I want to be yours."

She mimics his motions of earlier, brushing her lips along the exposed column of his throat, nibbling his ear with her teeth, and tracing random patterns on his skin with her tongue; she teaches him the true double-edged sword that desire can be, where the student quickly becomes the equal of the master. It takes him longer than it should to remember that his hand is in her hair and that he can use it to bring her mouth back to his. After the sweet, blissful haze of hearing her repeat his name and reaffirm her desire for him, he finds himself swept under an intense, painful wave of need. His hand on her ass slips lower, dragging the hem of her chemise up when he finds it and grasping her thigh in order to wrap it around his waist.

He growls when he feels the delicate, yet sharp bones of her ankle and heel digging into his ass and strides forward a step, setting her on the small table. She sucks his lower lip into her mouth, worrying it softly between her teeth and languorously swiping the sensitive flesh with her tongue. He whimpers for her, letting her savor her little victory for a moment before he parts her desire-slick folds with his fingers. Emma gasps unthinkingly, leaving her mouth exposed to his plundering kiss. He ravishes her, tasting every corner as his thumb glides smoothly over her clit. She shifts forward, unconsciously begging him for more as her legs lock around his hips behind his back. A low keening sound comes from deep in her chest as he slips one finger into her sheath, something that makes him think more wicked thoughts of ways to get her to produce such sweet music again.

He adds a second finger, becoming intoxicated with the feel of her quim and of her innocent attempts to ride his hand. She's so very wet, yet also lush and tight; when he adds a third, she begins panting and earnest in her motions. Her eyes lock on his, drowning in pleasure yet so clearly curious, wanting to know more, to feel more of what he's giving her. The pad of his thumb keeps circling the hard bud of flesh while he still searches for the elusive little spot, deep inside her core where her walls are a different texture. When the sparkling green gems turn hazy and roll back in her head, he knows he's found it and is rewarded with a shocked gasp and moan combination that has his trousers tightening painfully.

A few more flicks of his finger and a sharp press to her clit have her sheath clamping down instantly; Emma shrieks, throwing her head forward onto his shoulder and biting into the thick fabric of his coat to stop the delectable sound. In seconds, he has his trousers unlaced, and his cock freed, letting them fall off his hips just enough to sink into her fluttering, velvet heat. And now it is his turn to whimper, to groan and have his wits scattered, because she feels absolutely perfect around him, to the point where he's not quite certain he'll last. He pulls back, both of them hissing at the exquisitely painful friction of their flesh—her body clamping and sucking his cock as if disinclined to let him leave.

The primal, undiluted masculine side of himself, the one that urged and commanded he claim her immediately, wants him to assert his control, his undisputed mastery of her body. He has never felt himself more kin of beast than man, never feared the primeval animal that resides beneath the veneer of civilization and rational order; yet he fears himself and his feverish lust in this tormenting, stretched moment. He remains still inside her, fighting for power over his body's desire, eyes firmly closed. But then he feels her palm against his cheek, calloused yet still soft and beguiling somehow in its timid caress.

She turns his face toward hers, yet says nothing, waiting for him to make the choice to look at her. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees a matching hunger for pleasure—a dark craving older than time or history, a wild and untamable and furious need—alongside a gentle, compassionate understanding. There is no judgment in her eyes, no condemnation of the carnal nature of their connection. So much promise and hope in the words she doesn't say.

Her gaze drops to his lips, and she hesitantly kisses him—tender, feather-light brushes of her lips. Her thighs tighten their grip around his waist and she rolls her hips into his, gasping at the pull her body exerts on the steel length of his cock. He pulls back as well, staring deeply into her eyes before thrusting hard, the hand around her waist firming and increasing the power behind his movements. She meets his gaze without flinching, although she cannot help the gasp when he nudges the very end of her. He repeats the process once, twice, thrice—a slow, torturous retreat followed by a single hammering thrust—before catching her lips in another scorching kiss and pounding mercilessly into her cunt.

Her gasps become ragged moans as he sets their punishing pace. He drops his head to her shoulder, biting and sucking on the exposed curve of her neck and lower to the mounds of her breasts. Both of his hands are clamped to her hips, pulling her that much closer to him at the end of each swift stroke. She does her best to stay still, gripping one hand in his hair and the other on his shoulder, but his furious rhythm doesn't do much to help her balance. He buries himself to the hilt on a particularly violent thrust, and she falls back, letting go of his shoulder in order to catch her fall. He notices her predicament, takes the hand that is still in his hair, and brings her wrist to his mouth.

She whimpers when he slides from her body, but he uses her hand to help her to her feet before spinning her around and crushing her back to his chest. "I think now would be a good time to teach you something, and since you've been such a spectacularly wanton student so far, I think you deserve to choose. There's no wrong answer here, darling, and there are benefits to each. Furthermore, you will learn all of them eventually, but I'm interested to know which you would prefer."

Having held her shift above her waist by his arm wrapped around her, there's no obstacle to his questing fingers as he fondles her swollen, needy sex. She gasps and arches into him, unconsciously rubbing her ass against his still hard cock and driving him mad. "That's right, dear Emma. Feel what we do to each other, how your body softens and welcomes while mine becomes firm, unyielding. So, to finish what we've started here, do you want to take me into your mouth? Your pretty pink lips wrapped around my cock while you satisfy your greedy little quim with your fingers? Or, I can teach you how to ride me, show you how to use my body to pleasure yourself? Or, I can bend you over this table, let you feel just how deep I can go, how long and thick and hard I can feel?"

She moans, the thrill of the unknown and forbidden warring with the raw, animalistic craving her body has for his. Too far gone in the haze of need and pleasure, Emma doesn't answer him with words, but simply moves to drape herself over the table. Her silent expression of passion makes him burn hotter for her, the compulsion to brand, to take, to pillage without though becoming a siren's song that tantalizes his sense. He takes a moment to calm himself, reminding himself of who he is, or what they share, and that he wants her pleasure as much as he craves sating his own. He runs his hands down her smooth thighs, then up over the soft globes of her ass, and the gentle slope of her spine.

Emma whimpers, body curving into his touch as if he is the sun and she seeks his warmth and light. He strokes his cock for a moment, still wet from her lush, generous body, before carefully spreading her folds with the tip. "You have a beautiful cunt, my dear Emma. I dreamt that you sat in my library, right in my chair, and let me watch as you brought yourself pleasure. And I must apologize, for my imagination could not do any part of you justice. Every inch of you is perfection."

He blows a hot breath over the quivering, moist lips of her sex, and her whole body trembles delicately, as it did when he stepped closer to her or when he grabbed her wrist the day they met. He takes a deep breath, committing her scent to memory before straightening and lining the head of his cock back at her entrance. "Now, I'll be able to tell the instant you are aroused, the very moment that your body prepares itself for my possession. No matter where or when we are, Emma, I will always know how much you crave my touch, my mouth, my cock. I won't be too rough with you just now, darling, but I won't be gentle either."

He thrusts forward, burying himself again in her tight sheath, and by the gods, she's tighter than a vise. He pistons his hips, watching his hard length repeatedly disappear into her body. His grip on her hip is bruising, yet he feels her plant her feet and rut herself back into him, fucking herself on his cock. He lets go with his right hand, smacking her ass five times in quick succession before slipping down to circle her clit. He feels her walls begin to flutter around him, increasing the pressure building inside his balls.

She cries out, unable to muffle or halt the pleasure spilling from her lips, unaware how gloriously aroused every noise makes him. "Gods! You're fucking heaven, Emma. Don't stop making those sounds—tells me when I'm bringing you pleasure, when you're ready to come apart around my cock. Come for me, darling. Let me feel you come!"

She arches her back, lifting her chest off the table for a moment just as her orgasm hits. Her walls clench furiously and more warm liquid gushes around him. He loses all restraint and pounds viciously into her quim until he finally spills himself inside her, white-hot lightning racing up his spine and out to his extremities. He's careful not to crush her as he allows himself to cover her. He kisses the back of her neck and her shoulders as the aftershocks abate, his cock still rigid and burning inside her. He whispers nonsense, praising everything about her and promising more pleasures still to come.

* * *

Emma watches him leave, thoroughly enjoying the way his muscles bunch and stretch as he mounts and settles himself into the saddle. She sampled just a small portion of the raw power contained in his lean form, but soon she will know every line of his body, experience every drop of pure energy and stamina he has to offer. The imagined thought of him combined with what little she knows now both excites and terrifies her. After he shifts around, satisfied grin rounding his flushed cheeks in a look of positively boyish delight, he winks at her and sets heels to his horse's flank, riding off to take care of his own matters.

She turns back into her home, middle slightly sore and tired in a way that she will no doubt become accustomed to eventually. She shifts to stretch and notices a trickling bit of moisture along her thigh, unthinkingly pulling the chemise up a bit and wiping at her skin with the fabric. Later, as she is sorting through what clothing to keep and what to salvage in order to make up her new wardrobe, she will notice the set-in stain of blood and seed. She puts it to the side, determined to wash the garment to see if it can be saved; inexplicably, the shift finds its way into the bottom of her mother's wardrobe, where it is forgotten by its owner.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: First off, again, many thanks to all of you who have followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. I didn't expect it to be everyone's cup of tea, but I'm sincerely amazed and grateful at the overwhelmingly positive responses I have received from you all.**

**Second, a very brief historical note: In this chapter, a scene takes place in Sophia's nursery, but it is not, as some might believe, her actual bedroom. The nursery was a sort of catch-all room for children younger than ten; it functioned as a playroom, toy cubby, study area, and extra wardrobe storage. In medieval times, such a room did not exist often due to a limited number of smaller, private accommodations; the nobles were lucky to have private sleeping alcoves connected to the great hall, often separated from the main room by only a curtain. The nursery as we have come to conceptualize it today actually derives from later Victorian era children's stories and post-Victorian nostalgia fiction, the most famous examples being Barrie's _Peter Pan_ and Travers' _Mary Poppins_. Consistent with my studies in early to mid Victorian Literature, I am using the term in its slightly older conceptualization.**

**Lastly, in answer to a couple of reviews and messages I have received, the long and short of it is 'no.' While I certainly understand the comparisons made between my story and that of Ms. E.L. James, her characters and her plots are the furthest things from my mind when I am writing this particular version of Captain Swan. There are superficial similarities, to be sure, but I am actually pulling my inspiration from Gothic anti-heroes and Byronic heroes of the early to mid British Victorian canon of Literature. Killian's literary model is an amalgamation of several such heroes, but predominately Mr. Rochester and St. John Rivers from _Jane Eyre_, and Emma's is the heroine of the same novel. One of the first things a Victorian scholar learns is that nearly every novel of that era is fascinated and enthralled with licit and illicit sex; however, given the moral prudery and sexual double standards enforced by the patriarchal regime, openly talking about sexuality was strictly taboo. My inspiration for this fic, aside from the BTS photos, was simply this: how would _Jane Eyre_ have been different if the heroine weren't concerned about social ostracism? With that in mind, I hope you continue to enjoy. – JJ**

* * *

It would, upon later careful and deliberate consideration, come as no surprise to Emma that Killian in his role as her employer would seek to press both practical and superfluous tokens upon her which she had expressly denied him the right to lavish on her in his guise as her lover. Since neither of them had specified a day upon which she would acquire those things needed in order for her to take up residence as governess at Thistledown Hall and perhaps in a misguided effort to deny the sensual promptings of her own body which urges her to haste, she refuses to fix a day in her mind for when she would make her on-foot journey to the village to make her necessary purchases and commissions. As such while it should not come as a shock, she finds herself the very next day tending her garden and crops only to be interrupted once again by an unexpected arrival.

A small, neat little carriage led by a matched pair of grays and managed by the young footman Graham arrives with the boisterous young princess, her sedately pleased nanny, and the harried village seamstress. In short order, the young man is banished to care for the horses and to find any manner of amusement that keeps him from the cottage itself so that Miss Shepherd's modesty and privacy need not be offended. Emma blushes at the unfamiliar attentions of the seamstress, whose occupation seems to have so consumed her mind that she views all manner of people as life-sized porcelain dolls—opinion-less objects to be measured and weighed and dressed according to the narrow dictates of either the creator or the commissioner.

Sophia begs to be the first person measured—despite the fact that the seamstress has produced several wardrobes full of gowns and various accoutrements—mostly so that the attention of all of the adults remain fixed upon her for as long as humanly possible, but also to dispel Emma's obvious discomfort with the strange and unfamiliar procedure. There is also, of course, the added benefit of being allowed that most elusive and forbidden of pleasures—to stand upon the table without receiving a scolding. "It really isn't all that difficult, Miss Shepherd. One must simply stand very still and not fidget, because fidgeting means that the measurements won't be correct."

Emma simply cannot hold back a smile at the little princess' attempt to make her feel better. "Yes, your highness; I can see where that would be a problem. If I may ask, do you have dresses that are less fancy? Ones that your Papa and Francine do not mind if they become stained or dirty?"

The girl wrinkles her nose at the thought of any one of her beautiful satin gowns becoming rumpled or soiled. "Not really. Why on earth would I _ever_ want to become dirty, Miss Shepherd?"

"You may call me Emma, if you'd like your highness. Or maybe just Miss. And the reason you want some dresses that _may_ be dirtied is that there is more to being a lady than wearing fine clothes, and some of the things that you will have to learn require hard work. While hard work always ends well, it also sometimes ends in soiled aprons and gowns, so we must be prepared for everything."

"And you simply _must_ call me Sophia!" Francine and Emma both share a knowing look and a bit of a laugh at the girl's expense, for when one is young and important, every sentence requires at least one exclamatory word or phrase. The princess hops down from her perch on the table, and the seamstress gestures for Emma to step up onto the chair.

"I have two dresses that will suffice for days when Sophia and I might end up in the garden or working in the pantry or stillroom, so I think that four made of woolen should suffice. Don't you think so, Francine?"

The older woman starts, looking aghast. "Oh! Well, I do believe that his highness made out a list of sorts, guessing that you would not comprehend how much your wardrobe would need to be expanded."

The seamstress makes a notation in her book, nodding her head in agreement. "He did indeed, ma'am. Said that we was not supposed to use the cheapest lots first off, cause he wouldn't have no employee of his looking as if he didn't care for their well-being. Seven simple gowns of lawn, chemises, and stockings for the everyday; a passel of kerchiefs to match; three middling gowns for should company arrive unannounced; two corsets, one for day to day and another for the finer quality; and one velvet, as you should wear if and when the King should visit. Now wouldn't that be a sight! Our King hisself beholding one of my gowns!"

Emma frowns, clearly disturbed by the long list of what others consider clothing essentials, and begins to calculate in her mind just how much of her savings she will need to dip into to purchase everything required. "But then, his highness is right generous with every soul what works for him, am I right Francine? 'Twas only a few months agone that a young maid what had been raised at the Hall since she was a mite, got herself married to the smithy's apprentice; had a lovely little gown made special for the vows, just cause she had heard of such a thing being all the rage and got her heart set on it! Gods alone know what I and my family would do should we ever lose his highness' custom; we get our fair share of folk from the village wanting finer work than what the wife and daughters can manage, but without all the clothes needed to keep the servants well liveried..."

The woman continues to prattle as she finishes Emma's measurements and then begins making notations she doesn't quite understand about "bust lines," "profiles," and "palates." She chooses to make the most of her time with Sophia and Francine outside of the intimidating and imperious walls of Thistledown Hall, taking them on an extended tour of her garden and the barn. They find Graham standing near the sheep pen, gazing off into the distance across the open sweep of the farm's grazing land thoughtfully. When he spies the trio of ladies coming closer to him, his whole face and neck immediately blush a cheery, bright red and he bows carefully to each one of them. Sophia bats her lashes coyly and drops a fine curtsy. "Good day to you, _Sir_ Graham. How does your fine steed on this _lovely_ day? Have you slain any dragons or trolls lately?"

The footman peers at Emma through his lashes before assuming the role assigned for him by his young mistress, kneeling down to her eye level, and spinning out a fantastical tale that has her giggling and clapping in delight. Having herself been treated to an up close and personal display of the princess' fertile imagination and generally kind, happy disposition, Emma doesn't wonder that she easily captures the hearts of those who serve her and earns their fond, affectionate devotion. Francine turns toward the younger woman when she hears her sigh, catching the tender yet longing glance directed at the child and mistaking both the reason for the sigh and the object of Emma's silent contemplation.

It should be noted that in spite of sufficient personal life experience to the contrary, Francine was possessed of a cheerful personality and ever-sanguine disposition to the point that she always expected serendipitous encounters to be followed swiftly by happily ever afters. Upon seeing Miss Shepherd's warm gaze directed at the strapping young footman and beautiful child, a thought takes firm, unshakeable hold in the nanny's romantic heart, one that will over the course of her close service with the younger woman provide her with endless hours of doting amusement and a cherished wish upon which to build her own fantastical hopes for the joy of those she deems deserving. For what greater felicity could an impoverished, yet industrious and beautiful shepherdess hope for than to be united to a more prosperous and charming young man of her own class?

"Well, my Lady, there's enough of that foolishness and make no mistake. Your lord father will be most anxious that we have not yet returned with Miss Shepherd and her things. Graham, please do see the horses hitched to the coach, and we shall see to Miss Shepherd's trunk. Come along Lady Sophia. There's much to be done."

Graham looks blushingly at Emma before rising from his knees and making haste to obey Francine, who has begun her own speedy walk back to the cottage. Sophia slips her hand into that of her governess, chattering about the various adventures they shall have once she returns to Thistledown Hall to stay, entirely oblivious to the slightly horrified expression on Emma's face. An expression which quickly morphs into one of resignation and which completely belies the tightly reined-in fury currently directed at a particularly cunning, devilishly seductive, and thoroughly high-handed prince. She does not doubt for a second that she will need to be prepared in the future for such clever deceptions being carried out by all too innocent messengers, and to discover ways in which to thwart him.

* * *

While her father had owned a farm beast in her youth and thus had allowed her the chance to learn to ride bareback on a docile creature designed for hard labor, Emma has never before ridden in any sort of conveyance pulled by one or more horses bred purely for their stamina, elegance, and speed. The old gelding had been sold after her father's death because neither Snow nor Emma had had the strength needed to yoke Pilot to the plow in the first instance, nor the powerful arm muscles required to keep the rows straight. But walking Pilot across the pasture with her father at her side, apart from running foot races as a small girl, is the fastest she had ever gone until now. The entire trip from her farm to the village—to drop off the chatty seamstress, who promises to have at least one serviceable gown sent along tomorrow—and then from the village to the Hall goes by so quickly that Emma feels positively breathless by the time they arrive (and all in less time than it would have taken her to walk a one-way-journey into the village).

Looking up at the side entrance of Thistledown, she feels much less intimidated by the grandeur of the house even though she comes now as a resident for the foreseeable future and not as a mere guest. Perhaps it is the comforting, inclusive atmosphere created by Sophia and Francine as they tell her all about the different inhabited nooks and crannies of the manor. While another footman helps the child and her nanny to the alight from the carriage, it is a flushed yet pleased looking Graham who assists her to the ground with a firm grip on her hand and a light touch to her waist. But Emma does not see the footman's smile nor feel the warm weight of his hands, because her vision is ensnared by Killian's smile and the delighted expression in his eyes when they catch on to Sophia. It reminds her poignantly of the way her own father once looked at her, causing a gentle ache in the region of her heart.

Emma quietly thanks Graham and demurely takes her place beside Francine, watching the prince scoop his daughter up in his arms and twirl her about. When Killian's gaze lands on her over his child's head, there is a distinct coldness in his appraisal that has her inwardly shivering from the chill. Naturally then, her external reaction is to appear as distant, untouchable, and untouched as humanly possible, neither offended nor pleased by her master's perusal of her person. At this juncture, she has placed him neatly into two compartments of her mind; because to do otherwise, to allow her thoughts and feelings for the one influence her behavior and decorum around the other will ultimately result in the discovery of their true relations. Dramatic as it might sound should it ever be uttered aloud, Emma would rather die than to allow the truth be made known, because to be found out _would_ spell the death of her independent spirit and her freedom.

"Francine, it seems that you and my daughter have worked your magic and wiles upon Miss Shepherd, spiriting her away from her lonely cottage and bringing her here immediately. You two have my sincerest thanks, for it took all of my considerable skills and stratagems in the art of persuasion to convince her to take on the job of transforming this little change-child into a lady! I cannot imagine the feats of strength it took to bring her home to Thistledown."

"Oh, your highness, t'weren't no matter at all once Miss Shepherd here caught sight of our young Graham. Why, I must say that while she was quite vocal and inquisitive of what manner of employer you are in the presence of the seamstress, once we finished up and were in the young man here's company, she went silent as a temple mouse and just as biddable too! Must be that something else has caught her eye than the chance to work at this drafty old hall. Begging your highness' pardon, but women do appreciate finer things in life than taking care of another man's children and living like a servant all one's days."

Emma's face suffuses with a bright red, no doubt—shocked at the older woman's presumptions and scandalized that she would dare utter them aloud for everyone to hear. She doesn't know if she's mortified most on her own behalf, on Sophia's, or on Killian's; nevertheless, she bites her tongue and advances toward Killian, holding her arms out to Sophia and taking the girl from her father. Instead of apologizing or addressing the uncomfortable topic, she drops a curtsey and looks directly at Sophia—refusing to meet the eyes of anyone except the little girl.

"Now, my Lady Sophia, you have seen my cottage, and since that is where I was born, you know that I will become horribly lost in Thistledown Hall without your help. Would you be so kind as to show me your nursery?"

Killian watches the two of them sedately discussing the various pieces on the walls and the number of rooms Sophia knows of as they move further into the house, their quiet voices echoing even after they have turned beyond sight. He shifts his focus back to Francine, who had been frozen in the one spot since his glare had silenced her mid-speech; for he doubts not but that she would have continued to wax eloquent on the topic of Emma's presumed dreams for the future. He's always known that his daughter's nanny was something of a busybody, yet he had never comprehended the distances her romantic flights of fancy were capable of taking her. His blue eyes and rigid posture communicate his scarcely contained displeasure as he dismisses a stuttering Graham and the other footmen with a flick of his wrist.

"Francine, I fear that I must speak with you regarding what has just passed. Since you obviously cannot use the eyes nor the common sense with which the gods have blessed you, let me impart some wisdom to you: any fool can see that while Miss Shepherd is possessed of a keen wit as well as physical beauty, she does not appreciate being the focus of peoples' attention. In plain, she is shy, and your open discussion of her feelings whatever they may be regarding someone of the opposite sex just made her vexingly embarrassed and uncomfortable. As I said, it took a great deal of persuasion and convincing on my part for Miss Shepherd to accept the great trust of her position. Given this, I would ask you to curb that gossiping, matchmaking tongue of yours where my daughter's governess is concerned.

"I wish to hear no more about you arranging assignations or flirtations with grooms and stableboys for her, nor do I wish for the young princess, the possible future queen of this kingdom to be spoiled by an inclination for rumors and intrigues. She will have enough of those once she becomes a fixture of the court, so I would prefer that her childhood not be marred and shortened by scandalous or even merely indecorous tittle-tattling. A princess, and moreover a queen, must be above reproach in this matter as in all else. Have I made myself clear, Madame?"

During the course of her employer's tirade—for though he kept his voice firm and level, she could not mistake the icy rage in his tone—Francine's face underwent several changes in coloring, from blushing red to white with shock to green with ill ease. She gently nods when he finishes her dressing-down, at which point he stalks ferociously in the direction of the nursery, anger and ill-humor radiating from him with every determined stride. From thence forth, all of her efforts toward uniting Miss Emma and young Graham in a blissful union clearly must be conducted with the most scrupulous eye to propriety and decorum as well as stealthy silence.

* * *

Killian feels only a touch of remorse concerning the manner in which he addressed the nanny's overly meddlesome and loquacious commentary on their retrieval of Miss Shepherd, and that only because he misdirected more irritation toward her than he should have. However, Francine had not only presented herself as the perfect target for his ire, but he was quite forcibly unable to focus his resentment upon the person he believed most deserving of it: Graham. The second he had opened the door and began descending the stairs to meet his successful emissaries and Emma, the sight of the young footman touching Killian's lover as she descended from the carriage had caused him to seethe with rage.

The thought of planting his fist repeatedly into the ruggedly handsome face of his servant and the urge to deprive him of the use of his hands forever had struck Killian to the core. And yet to act upon these or any such impulses would unequivocally declare that Emma Shepherd was not merely his employee to protect, but rather announce her to all and sundry as his lover. All of her wishes to remain independent and unfettered would be as dust and shadows should he have given in to the compulsion, the violent need to claim her.

He had latched onto the lifeline of his daughter's presence, convincing himself to remain outwardly calm and unaffected by the way another man was handling what rightfully… well, what rightfully belonged to Emma herself, but which was still his to cherish, his to defend so long as she remained his mistress. And aside from the highly pertinent, immediate result of correcting Francine's propensity to idle chatter, he doesn't doubt that his explanation for Emma's disinclination for and disinterest in being romanced by a servant will spread to the others in his household and serve to keep young men such as Graham from tendering offers of love and matrimony.

Though his feet were already carrying him in the appropriate direction, the distasteful image of Emma's lithe, nude form in the arms of another lends an extra burst of speed to his long-legged lope. He hears Sophia's bright voice spilling out of the nursery and unerringly continues toward them; yet he halts just outside the doors and finds an incomparable vision, something that stirs a great, ill-defined longing. Bright, noon-time sunlight streams in from the south-facing windows, bathing all in the room in a beatific, gentle glow; and centered in a dazzling shaft of light, Emma and Sophia sit on the floor, a book cradled between their hands and a glorious halo surrounding their heads, one dark and one golden. An unfamiliar, unidentifiable sensation washes over him—neither joyful nor sorrowful, neither happy nor sad, neither lacking nor overflowing. If one were to be simultaneously a philosopher and a romantic, one might say that for the first time in years, the prince feels that most elusive of emotions: contentment.

Yet Killian is neither of these, and thus ascribes no special notice or name to the brief shining moment, but rather finds himself most definitely lacking and wanting for something. "I see that my daughter already has you hard at work, Miss Shepherd, although I didn't expect you to begin proper lessons until at least a part of your wardrobe arrives. Sophia, my love, 'tis time for luncheon and then a nap, is it not? Off with you now, so Miss Shepherd has a chance to settle in."

Sophia looks for a moment as if she would rebel or at least speak out, but then a positively crafty smile breaks out across her face before she leans over and whispers in Emma's ear. The two ladies laugh before the girl stands, grips her skirts well above her ankles, and makes to sprint past her father out of the nursery. Fully accustomed to his daughter's antics, Killian manages to snake his arm around Sophia's waist, hauling her up into his embrace. She kicks and laughs as he spins with her. "Put me _down_, Papa!"

"Ah! But having caught myself a princess, I am in no rush to let her go. Unless you are willing to pay the toll…" Sophia hums and taps her lip dramatically, eyes looking upward as if deep in thought. Finally, she grins again and places a kiss on his whiskered cheek, wriggling out of her father's arms and darting away to the kitchens.

Killian closes the doors behind him once his daughter passes out of sight, securing the lock carefully before turning to face Emma. She's still sitting serenely in her halo of sunlight, book held in her hands as if she has nothing more important to do and nothing else of interest to behold in the room. He crosses over to her, stopping a few feet away and simply watches her. She does nothing except stare at the book, turn the page every so often, and yet she effortlessly captivates him. He yearns for the slow stroke of her fingers against his skin, like they now skim over the smooth paper and leather; he longs to wrap himself in the golden, silken light of her hair, to feel it caressing him as he brings rapture and ecstasy to her body.

"I find myself quite upset with you, your highness. I believe I was quite clear when I stated that I wanted no frippery or baubles from you."

"Indeed, I remember your forceful negotiation quite well, my dear Emma. You also stipulated that if it was my custom to provide appropriate attire to those in my service as part of their wages then I should do so. Even if you sold your mother's clothing and several items from your cottage, you would not have been able to afford an entire wardrobe. I maintain a list of necessities with my housekeeper, so that whenever a new servant is hired, she knows what to order. I simply…expanded the list to suit your new status as Sophia's governess."

Emma finally looks up at him, annoyance and arousal swimming in her eyes despite her best efforts to conceal them. "And to suit yourself, no doubt."

"I've never met a woman who disliked receiving gifts and tokens of my regard and affections, save you. So, please bear with me, my dear, for it is in my nature to spoil those I admire and to wrap beauty in luxury. Reining in my impulses where you are concerned has been quite the struggle, yet I believe that I have thus far done admirably well. Should my valiant efforts at modesty go unrecognized and unlauded?"

"Your very desire for recognition is entirely at odds with genuine modesty, my lord. Shall I praise your humility next? Applaud your noble charity and stand in the village square proclaiming to all and sundry what a fine specimen of beneficent royalty you present?" Her eyes brim with mirth and mischief, yet they dim as he continues to hold her gaze, his own stare serious and darkening when he does something she would never suspect possible. He kneels, so that he no longer towers over her, yet still maintains enough of his height to look down at her, and catches a lock of her hair.

"Joy and laughter suit you well, dear Emma. You were meant for bright happiness and smiles, yet fate has dealt you cruel blows, and all I can give you to fill the void they have left behind is pleasure. Perhaps, in time, you won't be able to remember what you've lost, but only what I have lavished on you." He cups the back of her head, securely cradling it while he pulls her body flush with his. His lips brush gently over her brow down to the tip of her nose before capturing hers. She's seen them set in a firm line when he was determined to convince her to be his, but now they are soft, tenderly persuading her to yield.

Emma gasps, opening her mouth to him as his palm burns her breast through the thin material of her dress, her nipples puckering into hard peaks at the glancing touch. His tongue darts into her mouth, puckishly begging hers to come out and play; if their first kiss had been about power and control, this one is purely for seduction, for savoring. She moans as his lips travel down her throat, contact between the broken only in the moment it takes her to slip her dress off over her head. Killian takes his first true look at her body in all its untainted, innocent glory, and discovers the absolutely erotic nature of purity. He presses a delicate, ephemeral kiss to her lips before reaching out to caress and entice her.

He begins with feather-light strokes of his fingertips, tracing the sharp, clean lines of her shoulders and collarbones, down to her arms that have instinctively wrapped themselves around to cover her breasts and the nest of golden curls above her sex. Carefully, still using the lightest and most reverent of touches, he unwinds her long, slim arms and wordlessly bids her hold them out from her sides. He begins again, this time brushing along her creamy thighs, her sharp yet soft hipbones, her tiny waist, and up to her rib cage. He scrupulously avoids her more sensitive regions, loving the way her breasts tremble with her rapid heartbeat and how she moves seeking his touch or to increase friction and pressure.

He cups her head in his hand again before firmly stroking up her spine with the other, causing her to cry out at the intensity of the sensation. Emma falls into his arms to capture his lips, and after a chaste, glancing kiss, he shushes her and smoothly lays her out on the silken carpet. He murmurs soft praise for her obedience and her beauty, continuing to stroke her with only the lightest of pressures. "Open your legs for me, sweetheart. Let me see your lovely cunny."

Still shy, yet eager to please, her thighs quiver with need as she spreads herself for him. Since the moment he'd locked the door, he's been able to smell her desire—a sweet, yet earthy scent overlaid with the faintest whiff of the lavender oil she must use for her skin and her hair. Killian's arousal had sharpened instantly, but the sight of her sex openly displayed for him—the lips a dark, deep rosy pink glistening with her body's need and the sensitive pearl of flesh peeking out from its hood—combined with the positively erotic scent specific only to her puts his whole being on edge. He brushes her inner thigh with the backs of his fingers, and Emma begins to shiver in earnest, a low keening breaking through her chest.

Finally, after an exquisitely tense minute of waiting, Killian deftly parts her folds and spreads her juices up and over her engorged clit. She cries out again, her whole body arching into his tentative touch. "Gods, how you tremble and quake for me, lass! You are a vision, a sensual feast in the ways you respond to me! Since you are cross with me, even though I was careful to keep my gifts of dresses and such for you within limits, I fear I must humbly crave your pardon, Miss Shepherd."

He continues to taunt her with every gentle caress as he positions his body between her legs. Her mind is clouded, pleasure creating a drugged, sedate humming where her skull and spine meet. Killian wraps one arm beneath her lower back, just above her ass, lifting her so that her quim hovers mere inches away from his face in the air. "Am I forgiven, dear Emma?"

She lets out a strangled moan as he buries his tongue in her cunt, the wet, silken walls hot and seductive against him. He cannot hold back a grunt of his own as he closes his eyes, bathing each one of his senses in her one at a time. She tastes sweet as honeycomb in summertime, smoky as an aged whiskey on a cold night, and spicy as an exotic delicacy. She smells the same with notes of clean skin and lavender—a perfume that he would bottle if he could and scent his sheets with every night. His tongue continues exploring her cunny, mapping out the places where he makes her writhe—rippling, velvety folds hidden deep within her.

He pulls back, placing a chaste kiss to her pearl of flesh; she pants and squirms, desperate to escape him or encouraging him to dare more. He scents her with his nose again before ghosting a hot, moist breath over her sex. Her eyes glitter like pieces of a broken windowpane—shattered and needy. He licks the tender bud before sucking it into his mouth. "Am I forgiven, my dear?"

"Killian, I…"

"Yes, darling Emma. What can I give you? How may I atone and make recompense? I would give you the world if only you would ask for it. Say I am forgiven Emma, then tell me what you want." She's never seen such an earnest intensity, never herself felt something or needed something with such singular clarity of desire and purpose. She trembles to behold such reined-in yearning, such consuming determination.

"I want you, Killian. All I want is you." It takes him mere moments to lay Emma down and rid himself of every stitch of clothing; she only recognizes his absence when the raging furnace of his body returns to hers. He gently wraps her in his arms, bringing her up to kneel just as he is.

"Put your legs about my waist, my dear, and your arms about my neck." He guides her over him, brushing the tip of his cock against her soaked entrance. Despite their intimacies of the day before, he knows that she hasn't yet had the chance to appreciate his form as he has just so thoroughly done with hers. "Touch me as you will; if it please you—if I please you—put your hands on me."

With a gentle rock of his hips, he seats himself inside her. The both moan and suck in a shocked breath, the one at the delicious intrusion and the other at the decadent, delightful reception. The walls of her pussy tighten, stretching to accommodate his size and rhythmically rippling in welcome. Emma writhes against him, circling her hips involuntarily in a manner that has him begging for more and for mercy. He pulls out most of the way, leaving just the tip at her entrance before slowly yet powerfully sinking back in to the hilt. Every thrust ends in a whimper from her and a sighing grunt from him, as they continue their debauched torture of the other.

This second coupling can hardly compare to the first, which burned white hot and died out in an instant. They blaze blue, like the hottest and brightest of stars, yet remain cool, unperturbed, and placid as a verdant forest pond—soothing one another in their intensity. When they break and come apart in each others' arms, it's a revelation that neither one can deny, yet neither do they know quite what has been revealed.


	6. Chapter 6

Though a part of her desperately longs to luxuriate, to never leave the unexpected haven of the nursery, Emma swiftly rises and dresses herself again. Killian—the _prince_ seems likewise to have completely succumbed to a sort of daring madness and in no hurry to either re-clothe himself or vacate the room. A pang of mortification at her own recklessness hits her as she looks at the toys and books lying about around her, keenly aware that some of them hide underneath the casually discarded garments. She searches for his drawers first, embarrassingly conscious of his nakedness, and tosses the offending linen his way while refusing to look in his direction. Her averted eyes allow him to soundlessly sneak up behind her and lock his arms about her waist, stilling her frantic motions with the heat of his body pressed against her spine and with a line of delicate nibbles across her shoulder and up her neck.

Killian continues his slow torture, feasting on her skin and sinuously rocking his hardened flesh against the soft curves of her derriere and the gentle slope of her spine. "Why the sudden fear, darling? Why does shame flush your cheeks instead of passion? Have I not sufficiently made amends? Speak to me, Emma; tell me where I have erred, what I have done to cause offense and to make you absolutely tremble with the urge to fly from my arms. Please do not shut or lock the doors between us! You are my equal in this endeavor, and I will not have you afraid to open your mind to me."

His sweet entreaty, like every word spoken between them rings with the sincerity of his conviction; his voice tenderly compels obedience, earnestly demands a complete and willing surrender. She turns in his arms, eyes cautiously rising to his face and closely examining every line and feature before she takes a steadying breath.

"Forgive me, but I fear that I must be blunt: I am not your whore, nor can it ever be whispered that I am. Did you not yourself note the ease and speed with which you shut us in here, with which you bolted the door? You are right—there can be no shut or locked doors about us in the future, because such things are the very beginnings of rumors and gossip, my lord! What if your daughter or Francine had forgotten something and returned here while we sated our passions? What if a maid had traversed the hall and heard the sounds of desire meant to be shared between us twain alone? We cannot risk… We must be circumspect and rational from now on."

Although her gaze and face retain the soft glow of thorough satisfaction, her expression also reflects horrified panic at the specters that would swiftly become terrifyingly tangible and real in the event of just such a discovery. He inwardly curses his own folly and the beautiful insanity that grips him where she is concerned, whenever her scent carries to him or fantasies of her beguile his mind. Yet her own thoughts run parallel to his, for her next words pour out in a flustered, endearingly shy rush, while her fingers absentmindedly trace the curve of his lips.

"I forget myself, abandon my good judgment and surely my wits when you look at me; I am your novice in these matters, as we agreed, but please have a care for my reputation! As perfect, as sweet as this interlude has been, I cannot chance another such dalliance, your highness. Seek me again in daylight hours, and you will compel me to quit your house, your tutelage, and my position as Sophia's governess. Do not test me or try me on whether I will cling to my decree—my word upon this matter as in all others, once given, is irrevocably fixed. And the matter of my wardrobe is far from concluded as well. Good day, my lord."

Emma curtseys appropriately before straightening her spine and seeking the exit as rapidly as if her life depends upon it. The door closes after her with a ringing finality that echoes her clearly delivered and received message. Killian runs his fingers through his hair, tugging mercilessly on the ends. Madness! The simple country lass who possess the graces and steeled-spine of an Archduchess has surely bewitched his body and brain, stirred a fevered lust that can never be sated! His vaunted, obviously misplaced pride in his ability to command his own flesh mocks him for his weakness; and yet the darker, fettered portion of his soul revels that it has finally conquered his resistance, finally broken his falsely stoic exterior, and hungers for more. Her demands are valid, it whispers cunningly, yet we shall see what lies beneath her own façade before too long. A passionate nature too long restrained, too long denied, will, when at last allowed a glimpse of freedom, achieve all the black and forbidden delights within its powers and beyond, savoring them both in the moment and cataloguing the minutest pleasures for the dreaded, yet inevitable day when its chains repress it once again.

* * *

Emma leans her back against the closed door, fruitlessly willing her heart to cease racing and the rosy glow of complete satiation to leave her face. She places her palms against her cheeks, surprised at the unaccustomed warmth she finds there. What a wanton sensualist she has become that she cannot delay or deny her lover for longer than five minutes! She certainly has no desire to have their secrets exposed, but she also cannot refute the fact that the naughtiness of both the location and the timing of their tryst had leant a definite measure of spice and decadence to it as well. Her need for Killian, her longing to have the man all to herself and awaiting her pleasure has become a fire that burns beneath the skin or a tincture that flows in her veins; his mere presence leaves her wanting and yet satisfies her at once.

She forces herself to walk away, to head back toward the grand foyer and seek directions to the kitchens where Sophia and Francine will no doubt be waiting for her. She does not understand the nature of her yearning, of her weakness for the prince, but she knows that she cannot reveal to him the extent of her thralldom. Emma watched her mother sicken and die of a broken heart, and so she had set about making her heart and soul impenetrable to love and more tender emotions. She has compassion for the poor, the wounded, the widow, and the orphan; but she stoutly refuses to allow them or their plight to in any way infringe upon her day to day life. She will do her best to provide Sophia with an education befitting a woman of wealth and property; she will take her pleasure of Killian's body until they decide to part ways and end their liaison; she will do all within her power to remain untouchable, unassailable, and unbroken.

That evening, after a long day spent assessing Sophia's general knowledge and working through an inventory of the stillroom, Emma is escorted to her very own chamber where a large, steaming tub waits for her in front of the room's fireplace. She tentatively, wonderingly runs her hands along the exquisitely soft towels and marvels at the small bar of lavender scented soap. She smiles when she finds a note addressed to her underneath.

_You are right on all counts. I won't endanger you like that ever again—you have __**my**__ word upon it. Tonight, as penance for being an unmitigated ass, I will leave you undisturbed. You are not used to the comforts and luxuries that I am, my dear, but you also have known a great deal of privacy. I will do my best to keep that in mind, reining in both my all-consuming hunger for you and my desire to lavish you with those delights and delicacies of which I sincerely believe you to be fully deserving. It is a selfish zeal, for I long to ever see you smiling as your smile transforms your ethereal beauty, no doubt making angels weep in envy at your radiance. Enjoy your bath, dear Emma; no one will enter your chambers without your leave tonight, nor on any night you wish to remain unmolested and alone._

* * *

_My dear brother,_

_Your interest in your near neighbor tells me much, no doubt far more than you would like. But then, you were always one for your silences and secrets, Killian. As you requested, I have asked one of my clerks to look into the matter of the Shepherd Farm and how it came into the current owner's parents. I do seem to recollect an amiable and gracious pair making themselves known to our late King and Queen, seeking a private audience at court nigh on 30 years ago. The impression was fixed in my mind only because I was specifically excluded from their conference with our parents and because I remember that the man looked like a drudge or a servant, while the lady appeared very refined indeed. That their daughter would be herself a living contradiction does not surprise me in the least._

_If the young woman does in fact possess the graces of a lady and the knowledge necessary to Sophia's betterment in the art of housewifery, as you say, then I have no objection to her as a governess and tutor for my well-beloved niece. I look forward to examining both teacher and student when I next visit Thistledown. On that note, I urge you to not be overly concerned about the completion of the more decorative and superfluous repairs on the manor and lands; all I ask is for comfort and quiet, though I do expect that my next bit of news will produce the opposite effect for you. _

_As you know, Parliament has met in your absence. Your proxy acquitted himself quite well, however, he was forced to accept from the combined Houses a petition that has assuredly been forwarded to you. No doubt, you will wish to riffle through your neglected stacks of political correspondence to ascertain the truth of my words and confirm the existence of the document. And unfortunately, burning the one copy you received will do you no good this time, Killian. They have you well and truly by the cods, the long and short of it being that you must marry as befits your station within the year. Our lovely girl is no longer enough to quiet the unrest regarding the succession, but I am in no position to be producing further heirs, and my health has come to such a pass that those facts can no longer be hidden from those in government. You can no longer avoid your duty to the kingdom, brother. _

_To that end, the council has vetted the names and pedigrees of several eligible young ladies, both within the kingdom and from among our current and potential allies. I have endeavored to keep your options open, but they insisted that with my coming visit to your home, the task of matchmaker should also fall to my purview as your brother and head of our house. Prepare for a siege, Killian, for I am compelled to bring a potential bride or two for your inspection. So far, the least objectionable has been Lady Drusilla Tremane, who shared a flirtation with you about two years ago, if memory serves. She has remained single and available—perhaps for just this eventuality—but she would be an eminently practical, and hopefully not disagreeable, choice. Naturally, if you have another, preferred lady's name to enter into contention, please notify me immediately._

_I am sorry that I was unable to stop the Lords, and that after everything you have gone through—after all the grief and troubles that I caused or could not protect you from. I would spare you further pain, but alas, even a King cannot always command the obedience of his people. __Mea culpa__._

_Wllm. Rex_

* * *

Killian sits before a roaring fire, the two offending documents crumpled in one hand while the other is wrapped around a glass of exotic brandy. A litany of curses rolls through his mind—for himself in thinking that he could forestall the inevitable, for his brother for being unable to do the same, for his parents in encumbering him with their blood and their sense of duty and honor. His mind wanders to Emma, glad that he promised her a night of freedom from him because he does not trust himself around her in this moment. In his impotent rage and violent unhappiness, he might do something he regrets or might become sufficiently deluded into unburdening himself to her. His woes, his grievances are far too great a weight to place upon her fragile, innocent shoulders; and yet who else could possibly understand his plight better than she?

Who would have thought that a prince would ever have something in common with a peasant woman? Custom and tradition may dictate that a young woman marry, yet Emma Shepherd has carved a place for herself in the world—a haven of freedom and choice. If he wished, Killian could command armies to march for him and conquer unknown lands, could direct navies to take him to distant, glittering shores… And yet on the one issue where he most desires his own independence, his own unrestricted choice, he remains as powerless as the lowest villain. He broods on his brother's words, wishing they were boys again and he could thrash Liam into submission; wishing that the world and all its ills hadn't come between them.

* * *

**A/N: Villain (also spelled Villein) is an antiquated term for a serf or peasant who was tied by feudal or familial obligation to a specific lord and usually to a specific piece of land; they were perpetually indentured to their feudal lord, unable to marry or even move without his express permission. The caste was essentially wiped out in most of Western Europe by the Black Death because with the large numbers of both commoners and nobles dead, it was impossible to obtain accurate records and prove a person's status.**

**Sorry it took so long to update, but I've been working on a couple of important projects that need to be finished by mid-June. Rest assured, I'm not abandoning this fic by any means. Sincere, uncountable thanks to each and every one of you who have read, reviewed, followed, or favorited! And your patience is greatly appreciated, too. (:**


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